Metal Guru
by Pjazz
Summary: Third season. Sarah Connor goes to ground in Mexico taking Cameron's useless body with her. But powerful forces have noticed their exploits. One man in particular will not stop until he gets what he wants: Cameron.
1. Chapter 1

**Metal Guru**

**A Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles fanfic**

**by Pjazz**

**2009**

**1**

MEXICO

The evenings were the worst. Twilight to dusk becoming the blackness of night. That was when the memories stole back in, as if they could be banished by daylight.

Memories of what she had done. And what she hadn't done.

_Why didn't I go with him?_

_Why didn't I try and stop him?_

Sarah Connor lay back on the double-bed, alone, wearing just panties and a white singlet and stared up at the revolving ceiling fan. All it did really was circulate the humid night air. There was no cooling effect to speak of. It was hot and then some. She couldn't install air conditioning; it was rare in this Mexican town, where only rich white gringos could afford such luxuries. And she was trying very hard not to be a rich white gringo. Such people were noticed, talked about, and she didn't want to be noticed or talked about. Just left alone.

Alone with her memories.

She lifted her left leg, flexing the muscles and pointing her toes. It was deeply tanned like the rest of her. She sunbathed at least three hours every day. Not because she wanted to - Christ, no; cancer was an everpresent fear - but because it helped her blend in. Her hair was black now and shorter. She spoke only spanish, enduring the sun's rays so she became like everyone else, another _senora_ amongst many others.

Somewhere outside in the far distance a klaxxon sounded, more mournful than strident. It meant the fishing fleet had returned. The town had a thriving harbour and boats left daily to return at dusk laden with fish. To the east was a large fish processing factory that attracted migrants from all over seeking work. Strangers were the norm not the exception here. It was why she'd chosen the place. The sprawling ugly factory, shingle beaches and fierce riptides meant tourism was non-existant. No visiting _americanos_ who might know her from the newscasts.

Beside the bed lay her backpack, never far from her side. Ready should the moment come when someone did see past the tan and the dyejob and recognised Sarah Connor. It contained a Beretta handgun, ammo, the passports John had acquired, the diamonds and nearly twenty thousand dollars in cash, mostly tens and twenties. What she didn't have were photographs or souvenirs from the past. The gun, diamonds and money she might be able to explain away. But her past? Where would she even begin?

Sarah Connor _nee_ Baum was a fugitive, one of the most wanted in the western world. As was Cameron Baum _nee_ Phillips. Footage had leaked to the media showing Cameron breaking into the jail and shooting the place up. The Jailbreak Jailbait, the newspapers dubbed her with their propensity for sensationalism and a fast buck. Miraculously she'd killed no one; the only injuries caused by flying debris and the stampede of prisoners. John had instructed her that human life was sacred and must be preserved whenever possible. And she obeyed. He'd always had a way with her.

And look where it got him.

But there was no footage screened of Cameron once her face had disintegrated revealing the metal cyborg beneath the skin. It had to exist therefore the authorities were covering it up. But they know now, Sarah surmised. The police. The FBI. Probably the CIA and the NSA. She wondered how far up the chain of command it went. All the way to the top no doubt. Like the President didn't have enough on his plate: Iraq, the Credit Crunch, and now killer robots running amok. How did you spin that to the electorate? Answer, you didn't. You suppressed the hell out of it. Plausible deniability. What choice did they have?

_What choice did I have?_

Sarah squirmed restlessly on the bed, understanding that this would be another night when sleep would be hard to come by.

"This is all your fault!" she yelled, taking out her frustration on an innocuous seeming suitcase propped against the wall. "He did this for you."

Inside, packed foetus-like, was the Tin Miss herself. The mashed skin had healed, only the torn bullet-riddled clothing hinted at the previous violence. The powercell still worked and Sarah guessed the self-repair function was autonomic, not reliant on the missing chip. Even the left eye had grown back. But no one was home. She was just a mannequin, a doll, albeit a very heavy one to lug around. In time she'd find somewhere to bury her. Sarah couldn't quite bring herself to destroy the body, not through any lingering sentiment but because John might yet find a way back with Cameron's chip. She owed him that much.

On the bedside table were three cell phones, prepaid and totally anonymous. Use once and then discard. Untraceable. She'd already used one to call James Ellison shortly after she arrived, who'd informed her of the FBI's manhunt, one of the biggest in its history.

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"You're tying up two whole departments," Ellison said. "Quite a feat. I don't think Al Capone warranted that much attention. Don't suppose you'd consider handing yourself in?"

"What d'you think?"

"Thought not. I'm back on the payroll. No choice. They want me where they can keep an eye on me. Some here think I know more than I'm saying."

"And they'd be right."

"Why didn't you go with John, Sarah?"

There it was, out in the open. Like she didn't hear it enough in her head.

"I can't prevent Judgement Day if it's already happened."

"You're sure that's where they went?"

"Where else?"

"It was the girl, wasn't it. That's why he went. To save her. Is she still with you?"

"What's left of her."

"If they find you they find her. You know how dangerous that is."

"She'll be buried. Soon as the ground thaws out." A little misdirection; she still didn't entirely trust him.

"It's cold where you are?"

"Yeah. There's snow forecast."

"Wrap up warm."

"Noted. Where's Savannah?"

"Shipped out to her grandparents in Scotland. Oneway ticket. I assume they're like us?"

"Not everyone's like them."

"Thank the lord."

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**2**

**CIA HEADQUARTERS**

**LANGLEY, VIRGINIA**

The office of the director of the CIA was an ecletic mix of the old and the new. An 18th century desk that once belonged to George Washington juxtaposed a state of the art highdef flatscreen which covered almost the whole of one wall.

The human occupants too were a mix of the old and new. Joyce Cabot was the first female director of the CIA in its history. At 41 she was also the youngest. A new broom appointed by the incoming president to try and rehabilitate the public perception of an agency deemed to have lost its way in the wake of 9/11, Iraq WMDs - or lack of - and Abu Ghraib.

If Cabot represented the new then Theodore 'Teddy' Paulson was very much the old. A career 'spook' he'd joined the agency in the Nixon era and steadily climbed the greasy pole until reaching his present position as Deputy Director. 'Teflon Teddy' they called him - behind his back naturally - because whenever the shit hit the fan Teddy always seemed to emerge spotless, his reputation unsullied by failure.

"I need you to take a look at this, Madam Director," Paulson told his superior. "It's the Sarah Connor jailbreak. This is footage that the media were - _ah _- encouraged not to broadcast. Ted and Rupert weren't happy, but they've agreed to toe the line. For now."

They watched the flatscreen, Cabot seated behind her historic desk while Paulson stood a few feet away, ramrod straight even at 65 years of age.

On screen the girl identified as Cameron Phillips strode through the Los Angeles prison, strafing anything that moved with an M-16 assault rifle. Return fire thudded into her body, tearing the denim jacket she wore to shreds.

"Presumably she's wearing body armour," Cabot surmised.

"That's the assumption," Paulson agreed. "They can do amazing things with kevlar these days. Stop anything short of a 35mm round."

Then the bullets struck her head, jerking it back and sending flesh flying in every direction. Cabot winced; she had a daughter about that age. But the ordnance seemed to have no effect on the girl who simply continued walking, calmly firing from the hip.

"What's that on her face? Some sort of metal mask?"

"We think she has a metal skull," Paulson replied in a carefully neutral tone of voice.

"A metal skull? Come on, Teddy - is that even possible?"

Paulson said nothing. He preferred to keep his own council on what was possible and what wasn't. How for instance did a teenage girl who looked like she weighed no more than a hundred pounds wield a heavy M-16 assault rifle - one handed no less? Those things weighed in excess of 40 pounds. The recoil alone ought to knock her off her feet.

The picture changed to show the prisoners emerging from their cells and crowding the corridors, pushing back the hopelessly outnumbered guards.

"How did she unlock the cells? I thought it was all electronic."

"It is. And she didn't. Someone outside hacked in and over-rode the system. We don't know who. Or how they managed it."

"Tell me about this girl."

Paulson consulted his notes. "Cameron Phillips, age approximately 17, though we don't have official documentation. We actually have very little on her, but we do know she's an associate of Sarah Connor. You have her history in front of you."

Cabot stared at the document on her desk. It was an inch thick.

"Crunch it for me."

"Sarah Connor is an anarchist nutjob who believes the world will end in nuclear annihilation, after which - _ah _- machines will rise up and take over the world."

"And only she can save us, right?"

"Right. Typical Messiah complex. Her and her son John, who the FBI believe is dead."

"Do we?"

"There's nothing confirmed. Certainly no body. And John Connor was alive as recently as a year ago. He and Cameron Phillips, who posed as his sister, attended a high school in Los Angeles."

"Troublemakers?"

"By all accounts they were model students. Both scored impressive grades in math and physics. The girl in particular is classified at near genius level. Their attendence was patchy but that's about it."

"How patchy?"

"He missed fourteen days; she twenty-one. One of the teachers we spoke to said the girl often had scars or bruises on her face when she returned. When asked how she obtained them she replied, 'protecting John.'"

"Protecting John from what?"

"Unknown. They left the school last summer and never returned."

"Do we know their whereabouts?"

"Possibly. The FBI haven't a clue. No change there."

Cabot smiled thinly; rivalry between government agencies was fierce.

"We managed to intercept a phone call between Connor and an FBI agent we're interested in, James Ellison. She was his case before he quit the bureau."

"The SWAT team massacre."

"Correct."

"Was Connor involved?"

"Apparently not. We've been keeping tabs on Ellison because of his suspected involvement with Catherine Weaver's disappearence. There's nothing definite, but my instinct is he's up to his eyeballs in this. I'll play the tape now."

-------------------------------------------------------------

_"Why didn't you go with John, Sarah?"_

_"I can't prevent Judgement Day if it's already happened."_

_"You're sure that's where they went?"_

_"Where else?"_

_"It was the girl, wasn't it. That's why he went. To save her. Is she still with you?"_

_"What's left of her."_

_"If they find you they find her. You know how dangerous that is."_

_"She'll be buried. Soon as the ground thaws out." _

_"It's cold where you are?"_

_"Yeah. There's snow forecast."_

_"Wrap up warm."_

_"Noted. Where's Savannah?"_

_"Shipped out to her grandparents in Scotland. Oneway ticket. I assume they're like us?"_

_"Not everyone's like them."_

_"Thank the lord."_

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------_

"It sounds as if the girl is dead and Connor is somewhere cold. Canada perhaps."

"Actually, no", Paulson corrected smoothly. "Intell suggests the call originated south of the border. Mexico. A town on the Pacific coast. It makes sense. Connor has past links with subversives there. Therefore she lied."

"So she doesn't trust Ellison. Interesting."

"Very. If she is lying about her whereabouts then she could be lying about the girl being dead."

"And Weaver is still missing. Anything suspicious about these grandparents?"

"A retired couple who live beside a Scottish loch. He plays golf while she grows orchids. As clean as a whistle."

"What d'you have in mind with this, Teddy?"

"I'd like to send two field agents into Mexico to sniff about. Under the radar."

She'd only been in the job a few weeks but Cabot knew under the radar meant without notifying the host government an op was taking place on their soil. Fine if it went well, a huge diplomatic incident if it didn't.

"Okay, I'll authorise it. But seek and observe. That's it. No firefights on foreign soil. I'll be the one to make the decision if or when we send an extraction team in."

"Duly noted." Paulson prepared to leave then turned round and said, "Oh, one other thing, Madam Director..."

"What?"

"At the LA school they installed metal detectors on all the entrances. Some state law to prevent knives and guns entering the premises."

Cabot nodded; such unfortunate but necessary measures were a sign of the times.

"Cameron Phillips, or Baum as she was then, repeatedly triggered the alarm. When asked to explain she said, I have a metal plate in my head."

Paulson smiled enigmatically, nodded once and departed.

Cabot sat for several minutes just staring into space. The old man was up to something. She had the niggling feeling she'd just been played. Manipulated by a master of the dark arts of espionage. There was much he hadn't told her. A great deal left unsaid. She would have to keep a close eye on Teddy Paulson. A very close eye indeed.

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**3**

Teddy Paulson returned to his office on the third floor. Only then did he take out his cellphone and hit fastdial. The person he was calling was located elsewhere in the building but he had no intention of leaving an electronic trail by using the internal phone system where every communication was logged.

_"Yes?"_

"It's in motion."

_"She viewed the footage?"_

"The PG version. Nothing too...graphic."

_"It was enough?"_

"Sufficient. She is not without curiosity. However, she insists on having her finger on the trigger."

_"Ah, a problem..."_

"It will be necessary to compartmentalise what she knows. And when."

_"But she's your superior!"_

"She's not one of us, Artie. The administration parachuted in a glorified spin-doctor."

_"Don't underestimate her, Teddy."_

"Far from it. But I have no intention of kow-towing to a jumped up PR person brought in to bat her eyelashes at a congressional committee and keep the media sweet for the White House's benefit. We should be above that. Or below it." Paulson allowed himself a soft chuckle.

_"Who will you use in Mexico?"_

"Tatum and Webster. They proved themselves proficient at undercover ops in Honduras. They're young, ambitious and loyal to me. A useful combination."

_"If you're burned on this it's over, Teddy. You realise that? In the current political climate---"_

"Please. Clinton thought he had me out the door. Look how wrong he was."

_"There won't be another Lewinsky for you to plant. Not this time. Not with this president. He has scruples, God save us."_

"Ah, dear Monica. Such a sweet accomodating girl." Paulson smiled at the memory. "It won't be necessary. Trust me. I've been running black ops since before these people were born."

_"Is she really going to be worth all the effort, Teddy?"_

"Oh yes. I am sure of it. When I get my hands on Cameron Phillips she is going to change the world."

**-000-**

**The **_**Terminator **_**and **_**Bourne**_** films are some of my favs, so here I'm sorta combining the two genres - sci-fi and espionage.**

**There are several OCs in this fic. I know not everyone enjoys reading them, but if you have ambitions to write beyond fanfiction I think they're an essential skill to learn. I try to keep the descriptions brief and imbue them with some personality, not merely for exposition purposes.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Metal Guru**

**4**

**MEXICO**

Americanos. Loud, ugly Americanos.

No, the desk clerk corrected himself, that's not quite accurate. Neither of the two Americans who'd suddenly appeared in the hotel lobby could be considered ugly. The man was tall, blond and muscular, wearing shorts and a lurid pink Hawaiian shirt. The girl was also blond, petite in a thin halter top and shorts that displayed her slim tan legs to full advantage.

Loud, _obnoxious_ Americanos. Yes, that was better.

"Howdy, Paco. We'd like a room, _por favor_," the man demanded swaggering up to the front desk.

The desk clerk smiled thinly. "Certainly,_ senor_. Will you require two single beds?"

"Hear that, honey? Paco here wants to know if we require two singles."

The girl giggled. "What d'you think?"

"I'm thinking maybe we get our animal on and do it on the floor."

The girl sniggered. The desk clerk sighed and reluctantly accepted the man's Amex card, handing him the room key. "Enjoy your stay, _senor. Senorita."_

"_Grazias, _Paco." The man winked. "We intend to."

Yes, very loud very obnoxious Americanos.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Agents Bradley Tatum and Angela Webster worked well together. Tatum was a typical alpha male who believed in God and the American way of life as if they were one and the same thing. Webster was quieter and more reserved but no less competent and ambitious. It had been Webster's idea to act as typical yahoo American tourists with more money than taste, since neither could easily pass as Mexican despite being fluent in Spanish. The horny couple act was just that: an act. Tatum was married with a child and Webster a lesbian. The resulting lack of sexual tension between them was a bonus both were grateful for.

With the hotel room door closed behind them Webster shrugged her backpack onto the bed and took out a MacBook. While she booted up Tatum removed a small satellite dish from his own pack, unfurled it and placed it on the windowsill.

"Okay, getting a signal," Webster confirmed. The link to the CIA satellite in orbit was operational. She sent a two word message:

CONDOR. ARRIVED

A reply came almost immediately:

ACKNOWLEDGED CONDOR. AREA SECURE. NO COMPETITION.

"Langley reports we're on our lonesome."

Tatum nodded. The FBI and NSA were also in the hunt for Sarah Connor and Cameron Phillips. So far they had a headstart. And Langley wasn't known for sharing intell with rival agencies.

"Hacking into the factory database now. Checking employee records..."

The fish factory they'd seen - and smelt - on arrival was the region's main employer. If Connor and Phillips needed work to support themselves this was where they would most likely go.

NO MATCH FOUND

The facial recognition software drew a blank. No surprise there. According to records Sarah Connor hadn't held down a regular job in 20 years. However she funded her lifestyle it wasn't with anything as mundane as work.

Webster shut down the computer. She rubbed her bottom. "My butt is so sore!" she complained. "I hate motorbikes." They'd ridden Honda's all the way from the border to establish their cover stories as backpacking American students heading for Cancun.

"Your shocks probably need adjusting," Tatum told her. "I'll fix them tomorrow."

"Thanks. Dibs the first hot shower."

Tatum strolled into the small bathroom and turned on the taps. After a few seconds he announced. "There's no hot water."

"You're kidding?"

"Welcome to Mexico."

------------------------------------------------------------

The town's supermarket was small by American standards, but sold more exoctic fare than Mainstreet USA would ever offer.

"Are those live chickens?" Webster asked in amazement indicating several slatted crates stacked high just inside the doors.

"Guess they like their meat fresh," Tatum grinned. "No McNuggets here."

"You think customers kill them on the premises or wait till they get home?"

"What's the matter, Webster - squeamish?"

"Fuck you."

The theory was if Sarah Connor was still nearby she would have to visit the supermarket occasionally if only to stock up on bottled water and fresh fruit and vegetables. If that was the case then someone might've seen her, remembered her, even knew where she was staying.

"Excuse me, _senorita? _You speak english?" Tatum smiled at one of the checkout girls, the youngest and prettiest Webster couldn't help noticing.

The girl nodded. "I speak a little english."

"Terrific." Tatum spoke perfect spanish but that wasn't part of their cover, and anyway he didn't look remotely latino. "We're Americanos travelling with some friends of ours. Only we got seperated by mistake. I wonder if you've seen them?"

Tatum handed the girl a photograph of Cameron Phillips. She examined it briefly then shook her head.

"No? Okay, how about this one."

He gave her a photograph of Sarah Connor. The girl squinted then hesitantly nodded her head.

"You've seen her?" Webster asked.

"_Si. _Maybe. Her hair is shorter. And darker."

"Yeah, she likes to ring the changes," Webster said with an encouraging smile.

"When did you see her?" Tatum asked.

"Maybe 3 or 4 days ago. I serve her. Her spanish very good but...accented, I think is the word. She pay cash. Dollars."

"Was she alone?"

"_Si_. Yes."

"Do you know where she is now?"

A shake of the head.

"Is she living in town? Did anyone else talk to her?" Webster touched Tatum's arm. He was coming on too strong, frightening the girl, who began to look nervous.

"Okay, thanks. You've been a big help," Webster told her. "Guess we'll stick around and try and hook up."

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"Can you believe it? First person we talk to and we hit paydirt. Is our luck in or what." Tatum was buzzed, taking big lengthy strides as he crossed the street. Webster struggled to keep up - and keep their hopes grounded.

"Just because she was here 3 or 4 days ago doesn't mean she's here now," Webster cautioned. "Connor could've stopped here for supplies and be miles down the coast by now."

They entered a cafeteria on the opposite side of the street, choosing a window table that overlooked the supermarket.

"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll stake the place out from here. If Connor shows up again she's ours."

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Sarah Connor didn't show on the first day. Nor the second. Nor the third. By the fourth day Tatum and Webster had become regular patrons of the cafe and on first name terms with the owner, a happy-go-lucky Mexican named Pedro who wanted to talk soccer constantly, a sport neither knew or cared much about. They kept him sweet by ordering endless cups of coffee and leaving a generous tip at the end of each day.

Stakeout duty was tedious and boring but at least the supermarket closed everyday at six and didn't stay open around the clock as it would in the states.

"Hey." Tatum nudged Webster under the table. She looked up from her day old _Herald Tribune._ "I think this is our girl."

Webster peered across the street. A woman in sunglasses, hat and a floaty green dress of the type Mexican women favoured was about to enter the store. She was Sarah Connor's height and build, but her hair was shorter and darker, just as the checkout girl had reported. Her skin too was very dark. On her feet were a pair of scuffed white tennis sneakers.

Tatum casually held up his cellphone and used the camera function to snap a few pictures. He handed the phone to Webster who connected it to her laptop computer. Facial comparison software began its analysis.

MATCH FOUND

IDENTITY CONFIRMED

SUBJECT : SARAH CONNOR

"It's her!"

"Grab your stuff. We follow her."

Tatum dropped a fifty on the table. With luck it was the last they'd see of this place. The coffee was the worst he'd tasted in his life - and who the hell knew or cared about some guy called David Beckham?

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Sarah Connor emerged from the store after just ten minutes, placing her single shopping bag onto the passenger seat of a battered Dodge Charger. She got in and drove away. There was no sign of the girl, Cameron Phillips.

Tatum and Webster followed on their Honda motorcycles, keeping a safe distance back. Through the town and towards the coast they went until the Dodge stopped at a junction.

"The light's green why doesn't she go?" Webster asked as the Dodge stayed where it was.

"Wait. I think she's checking for tails."

The vehicles behind the Dodge hooted then pulled out and drove around when it became apparent it wasn't moving anytime soon.

"Clever. She's flushing out any tail."

"Can she see us you think?"

"No. We're too far back. And we'd better stay that way."

Finally the Dodge moved. It drove five miles along the coast road then pulled off into the driveway of a small wooden shack barely a hundred yards back from the busy main road. Tatum and Webster watched from the distance as Sarah Connor got out and went inside with her shopping.

"Okay, that must be home sweet home. We call it in. Or do we try and take her ourselves?"

"You know Paulson's orders. We call it in. Let the extraction team handle it."

"It's just one woman."

"We don't know that. Phillips could be inside."

Tatum was unconvinced. "Okay, one woman and a teenage girl. How hard can it be?"

"How about both our career's down the can if we screwed up. Hard enough?"

"By the book then."

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**5**

Sarah Connor lay back on the bed unable to concentrate on the book she was supposed to be reading. She'd managed to increase the speed of the ceiling fan so at least there was now a downdraft to dispel the warm humid air. Her tan legs were stretched out on the coverpane. Ten days she'd lived here. Now it was time to move on. Tomorrow she'd buy a shovel and bury Cameron's body. Then hit the road, down the coast aways or perhaps inland towards the mountains. Wait a few more weeks for the stateside media attention to die down then sneak back over the border to Los Angeles.

_And what's there for me?_

It occurred to her that almost everyone she'd ever known had been taken from her by Skynet. In the beginning her roommate and boyfriend - what were their names? She found she couldn't remember it was so long ago. Then Kyle, of course. Miles Dyson. Andy Goode. Charley's wife. Charley. Derek. Even poor Riley.

_And John._

No. John was alive. Somewhere. Somewhen. She was sure of it.

_Wasn't she?_

_CRASH!_

A window broke, glass shards falling on the floorboards. Something round and silvery rolled across the polished wood. Instinctively Sarah dived off the side of the bed furthest away.

_BOOM!_

The bed protected her from some of the stun grenade but not all. Groggy, with a nasty metallic taste in her mouth, she groped for her backpack, her gun.

_CRASH!_

The door burst open and in charged four men, identically dressed in black with facemasks and assualt rifles strapped to their chests. The first man literally jumped on top of her as she tried to get up, knocking the gun out of her hand and crushing her against the floor. Immobile she watched as the other three men entered the other rooms - bathroom, kitchen and living area.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear! Area secure!"

Her arms were twisted behind her back and cuffs roughly put on. She was lifted to her feet. A tall blond man entered the house, bizarrely dressed in a pink Hawaiian shirt under a black kevlar jacket. He spoke to her.

"Where is she? Where's Cameron Phillips?"

"Go to hell!"

"Sir, my orders are to evac immediately upon acquisition of the the target. The chopper is waiting."

The tall blond man frowned but reluctantly nodded his assent. "Okay. Go. We'll clean up here."

Webster joined Tatum in the house as Sarah Connor was hauled away. "Perhaps the girl really is dead. Paulson won't like that."

"If she's dead they'll be a body. We find it and we take it back. Start looking."

The two agents moved methodically through the rooms, piling Sarah Connor's meagre possessions on the floor ready to take with them. Webster noticed a suitcase under the bed. She gripped the handle and pulled. It hardly budged.

"Christ, this is heavy. Give me a hand."

Together they dragged the suitcase out. Tatum popped the locks and both peered inside.

"Holy shit on a stick!"

Cameron Phillips was curled up in a foetal position. Both agents drew their guns then reholstered them when it was apparent the girl was dead.

"Babe," Tatum grinned at his partner. "I think we just earned our promotions."

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**6**

**CIA HEADQUARTERS**

**LANGLEY, VIRGINIA**

Teddy Paulson took the elevator down to the basement levels and entered Exam Room One. An official notice on the door read:

REFURBISHMENT IN PROGRESS

NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT

Paulson ignored the warning which was bogus anyway and locked the door behind him. A man in a white lab coat looked up from his computer screen. Artie Stein, Paulson's trusted colleague and partner in this and innumerable other crimes.

"You're late."

"I had a meeting with the director," Paulson explained. "I couldn't postpone or leave without looking suspicious."

"Is Cabot still in the dark?"

"As far as Cabot is concerned the search for Sarah Connor is drawing a blank. An expensive blank. I fully expect her to lose her nerve and stand down the op within days, a week at most."

"We're playing with fire, Teddy."

"Then we better make damn sure we don't get burned. How's our girl?"

The two men entered Exam Room One proper, a large white cubicle not unlike a hospital mortuary. On a shiny aluminum table lay Cameron Phillips. She was naked. Her bullet riddled clothing removed and set aside for later analysis.

"I can tell you one thing, Teddy. She's not human." Artie Stein paused, expecting some reaction to this extraordinary statement. He got none. Damn, the old man had known all along, or at least suspected.

"She might look like an ordinary teenage girl, but that's as far as it goes," Artie continued. He indicated some x-rays displayed on a flatscreen monitor. "She has a throat but no lungs or stomach. A vagina but no uterus or bladder. No heart. No liver or kidneys. No intestinal system. No human organs of any description. Even the skin is synthetic. See the red line?"

Paulson peered closer. Yes. A thin vertcial red line extended from the girl's sternum up to a point just under her neck.

"That's the autopsy incision," Stein explained. It's healing over already. In just three hours. I've never seen anything like it."

"She must have some sort of regenerative ability," Paulson mused. "Imagine how useful that would be on a battlefield."

"The skeleton, or strictly speaking, the chassis, is a kind of metal alloy. Very sophisticated technology. It's what she's constructed of basically. Everything else appears to be artifice. An elaborate disguise. I'll need to run more tests to determine its properties."

"Is she alive?"

"I'm not sure that question has any relevance. If she's not human how can she actually be said to have a life?"

"All right. Does she function? You said the skin heals itself."

"But I'm not sure how. There's a power generator in her sternum. Radioactive isotope. It's heavily shielded but we'll need to take precautions when we dismantle her. The radiation could---"

"No."

"Sorry - what?"

"We're not going to dismantle her."

"Uh - well, I suppose we could run a CAT scan. But---"

"Tell me about her brain, Artie."

"She doesn't have one - at least not in the sense we have brains. See this socket here at the base of her skull? I believe that houses a microchip. Did you find a chip in Mexico?"

"No. Tatum and Webster went over the house with a fine toothcomb. Nothing."

"What about the woman, Sarah Connor?"

"Connor was strip-searched, cavity-searched and x-rayed upon arrival here. She had nothing resembling a computer chip on her person."

"Well, if you want her to function, Teddy, then find me that chip."

Paulson nodded. He placed his aged liver-spotted hand on the cyborg's leg. He caressed her thigh, ran his bony fingers across her taut stomach and let his hand settle on the swell of her left breast.

"Magnificent," he breathed. "Absolutely magnificent."

Artie Stein looked away in some disgust. He knew the girl wasn't human but even so the sight of a man Paulson's age groping what appeared to be a pretty teenager was rather sickening. Sometimes Paulson scared him more than a little. Scared him a great deal in fact. It often felt like he had made a pact with the Devil himself. Was the man insane? Have I entrusted my present, my future, to a mad man? These questions were beginning to trouble him more and more.

"Well -_ uh _- if there's nothing else..."

Paulson looked up but kept his hand where it was. "Yes. Good work, Artie. And don't worry. You'll have your chip. Connor knows where it is, I'm certain of that. She'll tell me. One way or another she'll tell me."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"498...499...500!"

Sarah Connor collapsed onto her back and lay there breathing heavily. 500 push ups followed by 500 crunches will do that to you. Her muscles ached and then some. She hadn't done this much physical exertion since her days in the psych ward. Soon the muscles would produce endorphins, the body's natural painkillers, and she'd feel better. It couldn't happen soon enough.

The cell she was in was small but extremely clean, all polished white surfaces. It had a bed with a thin mattress, a toilet and a small sink without a plug. Just in case she tried to drown herself no doubt. There were no hard edges; everything was smooth and rounded. The light was always on. She had no idea whether it was day or night.

_CLANG!_

The gate opened at the end of the corridor that linked her cell and four others like it - all empty - to the outside world. Sarah climbed to her feet and wiped the perspiration from her brow. She was about to have her first visitor since being captured.

A man dressed in a dark and probably expensive suit stood outside the bars. Old with white hair but sharp alert eyes. She sensed this was a man accustomed to giving orders - and having them obeyed.

"Sarah Connor. We meet at last."

A Boston accent. Clipped and precise.

"Who are you?"

"Theodore Paulson. Deputy Director of the CIA."

"CIA?" She didn't bother to keep the surprise out of her voice. "I thought the FBI were after me."

"Oh no. If this were the FBI some liberal-minded wetnurse would be reading you your rights about now. Why, they'd even be offering you the services of a lawyer. Imagine that!" Paulson chuckled as if this was ridiculous beyond words.

"I want a lawyer. I have rights. You can't just hold me without charge."

Paulson chuckled again. "Oh but we can, Sarah. Officially we aren't even looking for you. In fact, you don't exist. We can do anything we like and no one will ever know."

"And that's democracy, is it?"

"Democracy is anything we say it is," Paulson replied smoothly. "You'd do well to remember that."

"You amoral sonofabitch."

"You speak to me of morality, Sarah? Hmm, what are the fundamentals of morality? Tell the truth, keep your promises and pay your debts. Countless governments have lied to the populus with impunity. We break promises on a daily basis, both individually and collectively. And as for debts, those Wall Street imbeciles have us in hock for trillions of dollars. Not much morality there."

"You've an answer for everything, haven't you."

"And for everything a question. The girl. What is she?"

"She's terminator," Sarah told him; there seemed no point in lying now they had Cameron in custody. "A machine designed and built by other machines to hunt and kill human beings. She had a specific mission: to kill my son, John."

"And did she? Kill him, I mean."

Sarah met his eyes. "Yes."

Paulson smiled. "You lie with such futile conviction. But no matter. I could care less about your son. Where is the girl's chip?"

"What chip?"

"Don't play coy with me, Sarah. The microchip that is her brain."

"Gone. And be glad it is. If Cameron was intact she'd tear your head off."

"That's not how it appeared during the jailbreak. No fatalities whatsoever. Indeed it seemed she went out of her way not to kill anyone. Why was that?"

"She was reprogrammed."

"By whom?"

"My son, John. The person you could care less about."

"Perhaps I was too hasty." Paulson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So they can be reprogrammed? Excellent. This is truly the dawning of a new era."

It was Sarah's turn to be puzzled. "What d'you mean?"

"Imagine a platoon of Camerons. A whole army even. Just think think of the difference it would make in - _uh_ - geo-political diferences of opinion."

"Wars, you mean."

"If you must. We could annex the entire Middle East, or at least the oilfields which is all that really concerns us for all our propaganda. No loss of human life. Or at least American life, which is the same thing after all. No hand-wringing liberals to cry 'bring our boys home' the moment one of them gets a hangnail. A chance to safeguard a cheap and reliable source of oil for milennia."

"You wouldn't say that if one was chasing you, would absolutely never stop until it caught and killed you."

"But you said yourself they can be reprogrammed. And with due respect if a high school dropout can do it then it should not be beyond the compass of our finest scientists."

"My son wasn't a high school dropout when he reprogrammed her."

Paulson frowned in mild confusion then shook his head. "We're getting off-topic. I want the microchip, Sarah. One way or another you will tell me where it is. You have 24 hours to decide. The easy way or the hard way. And be under no illusions. The hard way is very hard indeed."

-**000-**

**Oh Teddy Teddy. He went to Man Utd and he won f----No wait, different Teddy.**

**I should point out the political views expounded aren't necessarily the author's own. Also, the CIA aren't powermad nutters but diligent, honest hard-working men and women. Okay, officer? Please stop pointing that gun at me...**

**Next chapter: Cameron is re-activated and Teddy discovers his New World Order isn't quite what he envisaged. John appears in chapter 4. All roads lead to Jameron.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Metal Guru**

**Chapter 3**

**7**

VIRGINIA SUBURBS

Robert Babbage was troubled. He wasn't sleeping; he wasn't eating; he seemed to have no recollection of anything before the past ten weeks.

_Was this normal?_

He didn't know. All he knew was a compulsion to log on to a specific website every three hours and check for messages. So far there were none.

_Was this normal?_

It felt normal, but that wasn't the same thing at all. His house in the Virginia suburbs seemed normal. Outside the grass in the backyard had grown to 1.56 inches in height. He somehow knew this without stepping out of the house and measuring. When the grass reached 2.0 inches tall he would mow it using an old push mower. It would take precisely 56 minutes and at the end he wouldn't feel tired or thirsty. He never felt tired or thirsty or hungry.

_Was this normal?_

He didn't know. He did know he was required to answer the door when the doorbell sounded. It did so now.

"Hello, Mr Babbage. I'm sorry to bother you..."

It was Mrs Hendricks, a neighbour from across the street. She was in her 30s, blonde hair that wasn't natural, 5 feet 4 inches tall and weighed 123 pounds. She'd never told him these details they'd simply appeared in his mind when he saw her. They'd spoken three days ago when he'd mown the front lawn (29 minutes). She'd asked him a question about roses. He'd been about to reply he knew nothing about roses when he discovered he did know about roses. Everything in fact, from their history to cultivation. The information simply appeared in his mind.

"Roses do not like hot summers," he'd informed her. "Water well and mulch."

Now here she was again.

"Good morning, Mrs Hendricks, neighbour from across the street. What can I do for you?"

"I was doing some baking when I remembered your kind help with my roses. I've baked you a pie. It's cherry."

Robert accepted the pie, smiled and said, "Thank you, Mrs Hendricks. You are most kind. Will there be anything further?"

"Well, you could call me Alice for a start. I'm a widower. Did I tell you? I lost my husband a year ago. Cancer."

"I am sorry for your loss."

Alice Hendricks nodded and smiled. Robert sensed there was an ulterior motive for her visit that didn't involve cherry pie but nothing suggested itself, not like the roses.

"If you'll excuse me, Alice, I have something I need to do."

Robert caught the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed her face as he shut the door.

_Was that normal?_

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert Babbage logged on to the website as he'd done every three hours for the past ten weeks.

YOU HAVE _**ONE**_ NEW MESSAGE

He clicked it open. A phone number. He picked up the landline telephone and dialed. There was no voice at the other end, just a long sequence of beeps. He listened for 34 minutes then hung up. He found he wasn't troubled anymore. He knew who he was now. And what he had to do.

It wasn't normal. Not normal at all.

---------------------------------------------------------------

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

CIA HQ boasts two vast employee parking lots designated the north and south zones. Robert Babbage drove his Toyota to the south zone, stopping just shy of the encircling chainlink fence. He walked over to the wire and pulled the links apart with his bare hands. He crossed the expanse of asphalt, keeping a steady unhurried pace. He carried two AK-47 machine guns and several bandoliers of ammo slung over his shoulders. No one tried to stop him. This was fortunate.

For them.

A plan of the building appeared in his mind, leading him to a side entrance that was poorly guarded and near his intended destination. He kicked open the door, taking most of the surrounding frame with it. He knew an alarm was already sounding even if he couldn't hear it. They would know he was here.

No matter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert encountered little opposition until he reached the basement level. Then three agents blocked his path and yelled at him to stop. When he failed to comply they opened fire with handguns. The bullets struck him in the chest and skull. They had no effect whatsoever. He stopped and fired one of the machine guns for a five second burst. The ejected casings pooled at his feet. All three agents were hit and collapsed. When he was satisfied they were dead and no longer a threat he continued on.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

REFURBISHMENT IN PROGRESS

NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT

Robert ignored the warning just as Teddy Paulson had the previous day. He found the girl lying on the aluminum table. She was a machine, just as he was. He took the microchip from his pocket, the one the phonecall had instructed him to bring and inserted it into her skull. Ninety seconds later she sat upright.

"You are to come with me and follow my orders," he told her. "Here, take this." He gave her one of the AKs and a bandolier of ammo. She found her discarded clothes and put them, then followed her rescuer deeper into the building.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

8

The sound of gunfire and screaming woke Sarah Connor from a nap. With the light remaining on all the time she was increasingly napping, often for one hour or less.

"Shit!"

In her experience gunfire and screaming meant only one thing: terminators.

The cell was a small antiseptic cubicle; nowhere to hide and no possible weapon to hand. So she stood her ground, defiantly gripping the steel bars. If she was to die it wouldn't be cowering in a corner.

_CRASH!_

The steel door at the end of the access corridor came skidding along the ground, the jagged sheared edges testiment to the extreme force used to gain entry. A tall man appeared, parts of his face missing to reveal the familiar coltan exo-skeleton. The triple-8 turned in her direction.

"Please step away from the bars," he requested.

Huh? Since when were they so polite to their victims?

And suddenly there she was.

"Cameron!"

Sarah was so suprised she almost laughed. "Is John with you? Is he here?"

"Who is John?" she asked in a strange monotone voice.

"Her chip is not the original," the triple-8 explained. "If she knew you before she will not know you now." He gripped the bars and wrenched the door from its hinges, tossing it aside. "Put this on and come with us."

Sarah was handed a kevlar jacket, originally matt black but now smeared with blood and gore, whose she didn't care to think. Reluctantly she put it on. She had a feeling she'd need it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**9**

Teddy Paulson was in his office when the general alarm sounded. Unlike other company executives his room was situated in the interior of the building, no distracting external views for him. The furnishing was utilitarian at best, the only personal touches a large framed photograph showing an reconnaisance view of a flattened Hiroshima - he told visitors it reminded him of how high the stakes were in his profession - and a desk photograph of a decidedly young Teddy shaking hands with a solemn President Nixon. Three days after the picture was taken Nixon had resigned. A giant laid low by pygmies. On a plinth behind the desk stood a bronze bust of Alexander the Great, his personal hero, conqueror of the known world at the tender age of 29. Some agents joked it looked like the singer Moby. Those agents usually found themselves doing a tour of duty in Kalamazoo.

Paulson silenced the alarm and picked up the telephone, dialing a number he knew by heart.

"Report," he ordered simply. He listened carefully then said, "I want all exits sealed and guarded. No one is to enter or leave. Full lockdown. Is the Director here? No? Good, I'll contact her myself."

_"Sir, we have agents down. Some are dead, many are wounded. We need backup. Permission to notify the National Guard?"_

"Denied. We keep this in house. No outsiders. Understood? I'll join you as soon as possible."

_"Sir, with respect, we can't guarantee your safety."_

"Don't worry about me, son. Just follow your orders."

Paulson took his jacket from the back of the chair and prepared to leave. He paused a moment to pick up the Nixon picture and study it as he'd done so many times. It was the only picture on the desk. He had no wife. No family to speak of. His job was his life. His job was everything.

"You were right to put your faith in me, Mr President. What I do I do for my country, just as you did in your day."

Decades ago, scrawled in his spidery handwriting, Nixon had written:

_To Teddy, a true patriot._

_There is a time in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune._

_Godspeed_

_Richard M. Nixon_

The time had arrived.

------------------------------------------------------------

It's not Cameron, Sarah Connor thought grimly as the Tin Miss ruthlessly dispatched several CIA agents who tried to stop them leaving. She's lost whatever respect for human life John managed to instill in her. She was a Terminator now, first and foremost.

The corridors of Langley were awash with blood and gore and human bowel waste. Death is a squalid, dirty business far removed from the sanitised version depicted on TV and in movies. Screams, whimpering, desperate cries for help mingled with the remorseless crackle of gunfire. Smoke and the smell of cordite tainted the air. Sarah valued her freedom - but at the price of this bloodbath? None of these men were bad men; they were simply doing their duty in the face of something unimaginable. Perhaps it would've been better to stay imprisoned.

"Sarah! Sarah Connor! Can you hear me?"

She motioned the two cyborgs to stop. Teddy Paulson, kevlar vest worn over his dark suit, pushed in front of the retreating agents.

"Director, tell your people to fall back. They can't stop us. They'll die for nothing."

"Sarah, I'm prepared to offer you a full amnesty. Just leave the girl with me. I'll personally guarantee your freedom."

"You want the girl?" She couldn't believe her ears. "Still empire building after all that's happened?"

"A little misunderstanding, that's all. She could change the world, Sarah. Think about it."

She thought about it then nodded. "Okay, come forward."

"You agree? Excellent!"

Once Paulson was in range Sarah grabbed him and stuck her pistol against the side of his head. "All of you men get out of our way or I put a bullet in his brain."

The agents fell back. They advanced to the outer ring of the building to be confronted by a metal barrier that blocked the exit door. "Three inch steel," the cyborg named Robert said placing his hand on the surface. "Try the window."

"That's blast-proof glass in a reinforced titanium frame," Paulson said. "There's no way----"

He broke off in astonishment as Cameron punched her way clean through. Amazing, he thought. Absolutely amazing. She's even better than I'd hoped.

They emerged in the north zone parking lot. Robert selected the nearest vehicle, a beige Range Rover, and wrenched the door open. He set about wiring the ignition.

"Get in." Sarah pushed the old man in the back seat keeping the gun trained on him. Outside Cameron let rip with her AK-47, strafing the side of the building and causing any agents brave or foolhardy enough to follow dashing for shelter.

"Sarah, you'll never get away with it."

She finally lowered her weapon when the cyborg got the vehicle moving and they left Langley behind.

"We just did."

She balled her right hand into a fist and punched the CIA chief plumb on the jaw. His head snapped sideways. He gingerly wiped blood from his lip.

"Why did you hit me?"

"Because you deserved it, asshole."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

**10**

They reached the house in the suburbs at dusk. No tails. Paulson's secrecy and security clampdown meant all was chaos and confusion at one of the most powerful agencies in the land.

"This is it? Your safe house?"

Sarah Connor couldn't believe her eyes. A leafy suburban street. Freshly mown lawns, roses, fragrant honeysuckle on the walls, the soft hiss of lawn sprinklers. This wasn't a safe house, it was shangri-la.

Inside she went straight to the refrigerator; first things first and she was famished. Empty. The cupboards too. Of course, they don't eat. But there on the table was a cherry pie. Odd but she wasn't complaining. She found a fork and began to eat.

"Sarah---" Paulson began.

"Shut up or I'll hit you again. Cameron, tie him to a chair."

Cameron found duct tape in a cupboard and did as ordered. At least she's docile, Sarah thought.

"Who sent you?" she asked Robert who was busying himself with a computer terminal. "You're from the future, right? Did my son, John, send you?"

"I don't know," Robert admitted, his voice normal despite having half his face missing. His red eye stared balefully at her. "I have no memories before ten weeks ago. I didn't realise I was a machine until a phone call told who I was and what I had to do. I thought I was unwell."

"You didn't know who you were until a phone call? That makes no sense."

"He's a deep cover agent," Paulson pronounced. "We used them during the Cold War. Agents behind enemy lines didn't know they were agents until we contacted them with a codeword. Then they did what they were trained to do, sabotage mostly."

Sarah bit her lip thoughtfully. Future John? It seemed like his handiwork. "What are you doing?" she asked Robert.

"The girl needs to be reformatted," he explained. "Please sit here."

Cameron did as instructed. Robert ran a lead from the computer to the chip in her skull. On the screen was a website logo:

ZEIRA CORPS

The download began.

"Zeira Corps? Is it Catherine Weaver? Is she behind this?"

"I don't know."

Sarah finished the pie then explored the house. Furnished but barely lived in. The beds were covered in dust. Flowers in a vase were dead. When she returned to the kitchen Cameron had unplugged herself.

"Sarah, where is John?"

Her voice was more animated, just like her usual self. She was back.

"He travelled into the future to find the chip you gave to John-Henry."

"That was foolish."

"Tell me about it."

"I am telling you about it."

"How come you're you again?"

"I downloaded myself into the Zeira Corps mainframe. The file was labeled 'Tin Miss'. Did you not find it?"

"No. You couldn't leave a message using pen and paper like a normal person?"

"I'm not a normal person."

"She has the voice of an angel!" Teddy Paulson blurted out.

Sarah smirked. "Aren't you a little old to have a crush on a teenage girl?"

"Most amusing. She is everything I dreamed she would be and more."

Cameron ignored him and turned to Robert. "Where do you keep the equipment?"

"In the basement."

She left the room before Sarah could question her.

"What's in the----"

The doorbell rang. Sarah's first thought was - they've found us! Then reason prevailed. They'd hardly ring the doorbell.

"I'll get it," said Robert.

"Not with your face missing you won't. I'll answer it. Keep him quiet."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alice Hendricks nervously knocked on the door. Her excuse was to ask if Robert had enjoyed the pie she'd baked. Flimsy, sure, but she so wanted to see him again. She was wearing her most revealing dress. Her husband had been dead a year. The mourning period was over. Time to get back in the dating game.

The door opened to reveal a stranger. A woman her age. Dark hair, tan, wearing an orange jumpsuit of the type criminals wore.

"Oh. Ah. Hi. Is Robert home?"_ Please don't let her be his girlfriend._

The stranger smiled. "Robert's indisposed. Could you come back tomorrow?"

"Oh. Sure. I'm---"

Robert appeared in the doorway. "Hello, Alice, neighbour from across the street. How are you?"

"I'm fi---My God! What happened to your face?"

"Damn!" Sarah Connor reached out and yanked the woman into the house then closed and locked the door.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah tied the new arrival to a chair with more duct tape. Alice couldn't keep her eyes off Robert's metal skull or his unblinking red eye.

"Robert, are you hurt? Were you in an accident?"

"He's a machine, you stupid bitch," Paulson growled. "A robot. Use your eyes."

"Shut up," Sarah warned.

"A robot? But that's impossible - isn't it?"

"It's true, Alice. I am a cyborg. Hyper-alloy chassis under living tissue. I did not realise it myself until a few hours ago."

Alice nodded vaguely. "Did you enjoy the pie I baked?"

"Christ, woman, didn't you hear what he said?" Paulson barked. "This is history in the making, and you witter on about pies!"

"The pie was delicious," Sarah assured her. "You're a fine cook."

Cameron returned from the basement. "Who is she?"

"The wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Is she a robot too?" Alice asked.

"Yes."

"She doesn't look like a robot."

"That's the whole point, you dumb---"

Sarah slapped Paulson in the face. Hard. "Manners," she scolded him.

"We must leave," Cameron announced.

"Los Angeles?"

"To join John in the future. There's a time machine in the basement."

"No! We need to prevent Judgement Day."

"Circumstances have changed. Every law agency in the country will pursue us. We have no money. No diamonds. No fake IDs. We will be apprehended within days."

Sarah thought it over and reluctantly conceded the truth. Mexico had been a nasty shock. If they could find her there, despite all her precautions...

"These two will have to be disposed of," Cameron stated bluntly.

"No. No more killing."

"The woman can remain. Her story will not be believed. But him," she indicated the CIA chief. "He is important. Influential. He will be listened to. If you do not wish him terminated then he must come with us."

"Hear that, you sonofabitch?" Sarah grinned. "Looks like you're gonna see that Brave New World after all."

"You're bluffing."

But for the first time that day Teddy Paulson seemed unsure, nervous, even slightly afraid.

"Robert will need to be destroyed," Cameron continued. "There is thermite in the basement."

"Why can't he come with us?"

"He is too severely damaged."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert Babbage burnt with a fierce white flame. He hadn't protested his fate, not even when Cameron prised the chip from his skull. If only they all died so easily, Sarah thought.

Cameron carried Teddy Paulson down to the basement still tied to the chair. To the end he attempted to bargain his way out.

"Anything you want, Sarah. A million dollars? I'll wire it to your account right now. Dubai, Geneva, Cayman Islands. The tax haven of your choice."

"I was always partial to Acapulco myself," she smirked.

"Fine. Acapulco it is. You can keep the girl. I don't want her anymore."

"Don't say that, you'll hurt her feelings." Sarah derived grim satisfaction from the man's desperation. He'd brought this on himself. On all of them.

"This is preposterous. Time travel's a myth."

"Hold that thought."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**11**

CIA Director Joyce Cabot stood on the front lawn of the house Robert Babbage had recently called home. A forensics team was working on the beige Range Rover. They'd already swept the house.

Cabot massaged her temple with her fingers. She had the beginnings of a stress headache. And who could blame her? The news was bad. Very bad. Sixteen agents confirmed dead and double that wounded. Langley invaded for the first time in its history. The Deputy Director kidnapped. Dangerous felons on the loose. A cover up. Illegal detention...

_Christ, Teddy, what were you thinking?_

A black ops run under her nose. Agents Tatum and Webster suspended pending an investigation. Artie Stein, Paulson's co-conspirator, after shredding his case files had put a gun to his head and blown his brains out, taking his secrets to the grave.

_What the hell am I going to tell the President?_

The agent in charge of the investigation crossed the lawn towards her.

"What did you find, Gordo?"

"Forensic have matched fingerprints to Director Paulson, Sarah Connor and Cameron Phillips. We have the name of the man involved. Robert Babbage. Rented the house for six months. Paid cash. So far he's a ghost. Nothing showing up on the grid."

"Babbage? Why do I know that name?"

"Charles Babbage maybe? Inventor of the earliest computer."

"Think he's sending us a message?"

"Could be. I'll check it out. The basement is full of weapons and ammo. We'll track those down from the serial numbers. Oh - there's evidence of a recent bonfire in the backyard. Traces of ash."

"Human remains?"

"No. Some kind of metallic substance. I've sent samples to the lab."

"Where are they, Gordo? They can't just vanish in thin air."

"Your guess is as good as mine. We've given descriptions to the police and the Feds. No choice. The story leaked. Too many people lost loved ones today."

Cabot nodded; she'd have many funerals to attend in the days ahead. If she still had a job.

Her cellphone rang, a brief burst of Vivaldi. She checked caller ID; call screening was a must today.

White House. Secretary of State._ Hilary._

"Yes, ma'am...no, I'm afraid I don't have that information for you...no...yes...we're exploring every lead thoroughly...no...yes...I'll have a full report on your desk in the morning."

Cabot finally hung up after well and truly being torn a new one. Sanctimonious bitch. At least my husband didn't horndog half the secretaries on Capitol Hill.

"You want to talk to the witness now?"

"Yes. Fill me in, Gordo."

"Name's Alice Hendricks. 34. Widower. No children. Husband died of lung cancer a year ago. Left her wealthy so she doesn't work, unlike us poor peons."

"Any priors?"

"Some parking violations. A ten year old DUI. She's no Bonnie Parker. Make sure you check out the dress she's wearing. It's a doozie."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alice Hendricks was seated in the living room, the kitchen being designated a crime scene. Gordo wasn't kidding about the dress, Cabot thought. A lot of skin on show. She'd been after something more than a neighbourly chat.

"Mrs Hendricks? I'm Joyce Cabot. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Are you the police?"

"In a manner of speaking." Cabot elected not to mention she was CIA. Gave people the wrong impression.

"How well did you know Robert Babbage?"

"I baked him a pie. A cherry pie."

"Okay, did he---"

"He was a robot, you know."

"Uh - I'm sorry?"

"He had a metal skull."

Cabot experienced a moment of deja vu.

_We think she has a metal skull._

_Come on, Teddy. Is that even possible?_

"A metal skull, you say?"

"They said the girl was a robot too. But she just looked like a teenager to me. Clothes were all torn, but I guess that's the fashion today."

"And Theodore Paulson? An older man, white hair?"

"Him. Yes. He was very rude to me."

Cabot suppressed a smile. Trust Teddy to piss people off.

"D'you know where they went?"

"The future."

"What?"

"They used a time machine in the basement."

Cabot stayed silent. The poor woman. Trauma. Had to be.

Didn't it?

**-000-**

**Cam uploaded her OS to the Zeira Corps mainframe then downloaded it again. A neat plausible solution, I hope you agree. Who sent Robert? Later.**

**Paulson as Dick Cheney? Hmm, more Karl Rove with some Donald Rumsfeld thrown in. And if you think he's crazy now, you ain't seen nothing yet...**

**Next chapter. The future. And John.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Metal Guru**

**12**

Sarah was the first to react, rising slowly to her feet from the crouch position. It was her second journey through time. It didn't get any easier with repitition.

"Where are we?"

Cameron rose up beside her and scanned the desolate landscape, all shattered buildings and sooty burned out car hulks. She checked the horizon and angle of the sun then compared it to an internal database Sarah couldn't begin to fathom. "Los Angeles," she announced finally. "2029."

Teddy Paulson attempted to get up but fell over instead, the CIA director's pale naked old man's body sprawling in the dirt. Sarah didn't move to help him. She didn't like the man. Never would.

"Where am I?" he groaned climbing to his feet unaided.

"Los Angeles."

"Bullshit. This is some kind of trick. It's a movie set of some sort. You're trying to deceive me."

"Why would I even bother?"

Paulson noticed the two women were nude. And so was he.

"Where are my damn clothes?"

"Possessions don't pass through."

"I had a watch. A gold Rolex. A personal gift from Ronald Reagan."

"Possessions don't pass through," Cameron repeated.

"Dammit, this charade has gone on long enough! I want----"

Paulson broke off. The sound of gravel crunching. They all heard it. Someone was approaching.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Jeb Morales was 17 years old and already a deserter and a murderer. He'd run away from his militia platoon in Ventura county, finally having had all he could stomach of taking orders and being shot at by the machines. He'd gone AWOL during sentry duty, putting a bullet in the back of his platoon leader then high-tailing it for Mexico while the getting was good. Word was the living was easy south of the border, metal left you alone and the _senoritas_ queued up to suck American dick.

_Sweet._

All Jeb really cared about was getting high. An ignoble ambition in peacetime, during a war of extinction it seemed positively perverse. So far he'd blundered his way across the countryside in various states of intoxication without encountering trouble more serious than a bad case of sunburn. The devil looked after its own it seemed. He'd traded his spare rifle the day before for a case of Night Train and an ounce of weed. He was badly hungover. The weed had been mostly stalk and merely added to his headache.

He was almost on top of the three strangers before he was aware they were there.

_WTF?_

Two women and a gnarly old dude. All three naked. As his sore brain tried to make sense of it the old man grabbed his sleeve.

"Son, listen to me. I need your cellphone. This is very important."

Jeb shook him off. "The fuck's a cellphone?"

"Son, listen carefully. These women are escaped felons. There's a reward for their capture. From the CIA no less. I'll personally see that you get it."

"The fuck's the CIA?"

"It's an acronyn, son. Stands for Central Intelligence Agency. We take orders direct from the President."

"The fuck's the President?" Jeb didn't care for the old man distracting him while he tried to concentrate on the naked women. Now they were a sight to behold. His gaze roamed hungrily back and forth. They weren't even bothering to cover up. Everything was right there on display. _Swe-ee-et_. Maybe he wouldn't have to go all the way to Mexico after all.

Teddy Paulson lost his temper. "Dammit, are you a retard? Give me your damn cellphone. Now!"

That did it. Jeb lashed out with his rifle, the stock connecting solidly with the old man's shoulder. He'd been aiming for the head but he was a mite hungover. Still the old man fell down easy enough. He took more careful aim.

"No!" Despite herself Sarah stepped forward. She couldn't just stand idly by while Paulson got his brains beat out. "Leave him alone."

But Jeb was past caring. He cuffed the woman away with his left hand. He'd deal with her good and proper just as soon as---

Cameron punched him once. It was enough. More than enough. Jeb's head jerked back at a sickening angle with a sound like a dry branch breaking underfoot. The teenager, the deserter, the murderer, the would-be lothario fell to the ground, twitched once, twice, then lay still.

"You didn't have to kill him," Sarah admonished rubbing her jaw. "I can fight my own battles."

"It's too late."

"He probably has friends. Family. People who care about him."

"I'm sorry for their loss."

Cameron recited the words as if by rote. But Sarah knew that apart from her son and possibly herself, Cameron cared little if humans lived or died. She should have intervened sooner, when Paulson had begun his self-serving little speech.

Too little too late.

Sarah pulled the backpack off the boy's body. He wouldn't be needing it anymore. He'd packed spare clothing. Good. They wouldn't have to strip the body. And a pair of boots. A size too big but what the hell. She selected fatigue pants and an almost clean shirt then tossed the pack to Cameron. The cyborg chose jeans and a tanktop. That left Paulson with a pair of torn dirty jeans and a tee shirt. He gazed at them with distaste. He'd never worn jeans in his life, let alone ones that stank of piss. Even in his leisure hours he habitually wore a suit and tie of the finest quality material.

"Put them on," Sarah instructed. "This isn't the time or place to wander bareass."

"He didn't know what a cellphone is. Or the President," Paulson said, mystified.

"The President is dead," Cameron told him. "And cellphones no longer function."

Paulson nodded without really hearing. The desolate landscape extended as far as the eye could see. No way could Connor have organised this. But that meant...

"My God. It's all true, isn't it? This is the future. What you said. It really happened."

Sarah tugged the boots off the boy and threw them to the CIA man, who gazed into the far distance with uncomprehending eyes. Sarah knew the look well. Had seen it in Miles Dyson. Charley Dixon. And herself, all those years ago. The impossible made real, incontrovertible fact.

"Here, put these boots on. Cameron can go barefoot. You can't."

Paulson did as he was told, all the fight suddenly knocked out of him. "But how? What happened?"

"Judgement Day. A thermo-nuclear exchange. Skynet's attempt to eradicate all human life from the planet." Cameron's voice was matter of fact, emotionless. She could've been listing the football results.

The boots went on. They were still warm. And by some small miracle a perfect fit. "What about our armed forces? Didn't they fight back?"

"Most were annihilated in the First Strike. There were isolated pockets of resistance."

"What about the President? There are procedures, bunkers, safe havens."

"Destroyed."

"And the line of succession? Vee Pee, Senate, congress?"

"Eliminated."

"You mean there's no President? No administration? Nothing?"

"Correct."

"I can't believe it."

"Yet true nonetheless. Belief is not required for something to be fact."

"Did the CIA have plans for a computer system to control the nuclear arsenal?" Sarah asked.

"Uh - yes. How did..? Never mind. Project Icarus. Joint NSA/Pentagon op. Top secret, naturally. It dates back to Reagan's _Star Wars _initiative. Intercept the missiles in the high atmosphere before they make landfall. The window of opportunity is tiny. Mere seconds. In terms of the command loop, people can't react that quickly so---"

"So you let computers do it," Sarah finished. "Real smart."

"Under our auspices," Paulson insisted, bristling at her tone. "There are safeguards built in."

"Obviously not safe enough."

"When I get back to my office I'll have someone at the Pentagon bring me up to speed. I have security clearance at..." he trailed off. Then. "I don't have an office anymore, do I?"

"You might still have an office," Cameron said. "Just no walls or ceiling."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

**13**

They headed north, keeping mostly to the wider streets. Cameron took point, then Sarah with the rifle slung over her back, and Paulson bringing up the rear. A very distant rear. The CIA spook was lagging behind.

"Try and keep up," Sarah told him for what seemed the hundreth time.

"I could carry him," Cameron suggested.

"No. He has to learn." Vindictive? Well, who could blame her.

She handed Paulson Jeb's water bottle. It was already half empty. "Don't drink it all. Just sip---" She broke off; he'd upended the bottle and chugged it down. "What did I just tell you?"

"I'm thirsty."

"And I'm not? You selfish SOB."

"You can't talk to me like that!"

"Wanna bet?"

"I could pick up a phone right now and vanish you. Just like that. Don't think I haven't done it before."

"Go ahead," Sarah smirked. "Make the call."

Paulson seethed with frustration, his bony hands balled into fists. "Where the hell is everybody?" He began yelling. "HELLOOOOO! IS ANYBODY HERE?"

"Jesus, shut up!" Sarah moved to silence him.

"Don't you touch me!" He took a step back, suddenly fearful. "You know what the communists called people like you, Sarah? Useful idiots. You brought me the girl. That should have been the end of it."

"The end of you more like."

"Don't you look at me like that!" He could see the contempt in her eyes. "You know what Dick Nixon once told me? We think and do things others would find morally reprehensible. Yet we think and do them all the same because it's in the best interests of our country."

"In other words, the ends justify the means."

"Precisely!"

"Some means. Some ends."

Paulson continued with his self-righteous justifications but Sarah tuned him out, preferring not to listen. Cameron was behaving oddly. She'd stood rooted to the same spot for several minutes, staring blankly at a building across the way.

"What is it? she whispered going to stand beside her. "Trouble?"

"Yes."

Sarah made sure the rifle was loaded. "Metal?"

"Things are different."

"Different how?"

"That building shouldn't exist."

The building was a half-toppled apartment block, seemingly the same as the many others they'd passed.

"It shouldn't exist," Cameron continued. "I have accessed my memory cell. This building is destroyed."

"Perhaps you're mistaken."

"I'm never mistaken."

"You've been this way before?"

"Yes. The building is flattened."

"So what does it mean?"

"It means things are changed."

"Changed how?"

"History is altered."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Sarah hadn't known cyborgs didn't feel emotions she'd have said Cameron was thoroughly depressed. She continued to stare balefully at the building she insisted didn't belong.

"How is history altered? Did we do something?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"This has to do with John jumping forwards. It changed things. It is possible the resistance is losing the war."

"That's impossible. Future John---"

"Doesn't exist here."

Sarah frowned. She'd assumed there were now two John's - her teenage son and the John her age, the great leader, the man she'd raised him to become. The prospect of meeting him, this familiar stranger who had changed all their lives in one way or another, gave her butterflies in the stomach.

_And now he doesn't exist?_

"What are you two whispering about?" Paulson shuffled over suddenly suspicious. "Is it about me? You're planning to abandon me, aren't you?"

"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind." Sarah touched Cameron's arm. "We should move. Find people. Get some real information."

"If there are people left to find," Cameron replied cryptically.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**14**

On Judgement Day there were 22 million automobiles in Los Angeles county. When the bombs dropped some 10 million were in transit on the 20,771 miles of interstate, freeway and public road. Most of them are still there. Along with their occupants.

"Four in this one. Two adults and two kids, infants judging by the size of the bones. And look - Disney souvenirs. A family day out to Anaheim, no doubt."

Teddy Paulson peered into the rusting hulk of one such automobile and gave a running commentary on what he found. He'd taken a morbid interest in the vehicles they passed, especially the ones that hadn't burned on that terrible day, gawping at the dead and speculating on their demise.

Sarah waited impatiently. She'd threatened to leave him behind several times if he didn't keep up. But the old man seemed to know it was an empty threat; she felt responsible for bringing him here into this nightmarish landscape and couldn't bring herself to abandon him.

Paulson wrestled the door open before Sarah realised what he was doing. It creaked open on rusty hinges and a breeze circulated the interior for the first time in decades, causing the smaller bones to shift and rustle against each other. A large cloud of dust billowed out, enveloping the CIA man in powdery white ash.

"The dust of civilization!" he exalted, raising his arms high. "Babylon's ashes! For our sins, Sarah! For our sins!"

It's done something to his mind, Sarah thought. Made him crazy. Or a different kind of crazy. It would've been kinder just to have shot him.

Cameron strode towards them. Her feet were still bare but it didn't seem to affect her mobilty. And pain or discomfort were alien concepts. "Look," she said, pointing at the horizon. "We are not alone."

On the far horizon silvery aircraft of advanced design hovered above some shattered buildings.

"What are they?" Paulson asked, fascinated.

"HunterKillers."

"What do they do?"

"The clue's in the name."

As they watched white beams of light lanced down, throwing up plumes of smoke and debris where they struck the ground.

"Laser cannon," Cameron explained.

"What are they shooting at?"

"Humans."

Yellow beams of light sprang up from the buildings, seeking the hovering craft but mostly falling short.

"What's happening now?"

"Plasma rifles. The human's are fighting back."

"All right! Give 'em hell, boys!" Paulson punched the air like it was a ballgame with nothing at stake but a glittering prize and a commiserating pat on the back for the losers.

The yellow beams petered out one by one as the white beams intensified. Finally the HKs ceased hovering and moved away, heading towards the coast.

"Did we win?" Paulson asked more in hope than expectation.

"No."

"Sonofabitch! Those goddamn robot sons of bitches!"

"I'll second that," Sarah added.

"And I'll third it," added Cameron.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

They rested in a small park where office workers had once chatted and eaten lunch, planned weekends away in the mountains or the beach and shared the latest gossip. Now it was wild and overgrown; nature seizing back what mankind abandoned. The light was beginning to fade. Sooner rather than later they'd need to find shelter.

"People are here," Cameron stated, staring off into the undergrowth.

"Here? Now?" Sarah eased the rifle off her shoulders. It was rusty, badly maintained by the boy. There was a good chance if she used it it would explode in her hands.

"This is a garden."

"A park," Sarah corrected. "Once. A long time ago."

"A garden. Now." The cyborg was insistent. She pointed. Sarah looked in that direction.

_My God, she's right. Lettuces. Cabbages. Some kind of root vegetable. Tomato vines. I never noticed. Grown haphazardly, not in neat rows, presumably for disguise._

"Where there is a garden," Cameron stated. "There will be gardeners. We wait."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They didn't have to wait long. Twenty minutes later a young girl, possibly ten years old or even younger, came skipping through the tall grass, seemingly without a care in the world. Cameron seized her from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle any cries. Sarah knelt in front of her and smiled.

"Don't be afraid. We won't hurt you. We just want to talk. My name's Sarah. What's your name?"

"T...T...Theresa."

"Okay, Theresa, can you tell us----"

But the girl fidgeted, twisting round in Cameron's grasp. "Allison? How did you get in front of me? I thought you were walking behind with John. And why are your feet bare?"

"John?" Sarah nudged the girl so she was facing her again. "John Connor?" She hardly dared hope.

"Yes. He's with Allison. At least I thought he was. Are you two playing games with me again?"

The tall grass swayed and parted. Two figures. They stopped dead.

"John!"

"Mom?"

A mother and child reunion. The tears streamed down Sarah's face. She hugged him tight.

Beside John a familiar face looked at an equally familiar face. Her own.

"John?" Allison Young demanded. "Who is this girl? Why does she have my face, John? WHY DOES SHE HAVE MY FACE!"

**-000-**

**Jameronison? Jallisoneron? **

**Last update for a little while. Holidays.**


	5. Chapter 5

JUDGEMENT DAY

SEQUOIA NATIONAL PARK

The trail was steep and dusty, occasionally slippery with dry pine needles underfoot, and rife with snakes that liked to bask in the sun on the bare, rocky outcrops.

_And I don't like snakes._

Joyce Cabot kept up a steady pace, tried hard not to think about snakes and soon found herself high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. At 41, with a job that kept her largely deskbound, she considered herself pretty fit. She'd run track in college, did Pilates and played a great deal of tennis in her spare time.

_And I have a lot more of that lately..._

She emerged at a lookout point carved into the mountainside. Several picnic tables beckoned with a view to die for. Her thighs ached from her exertions - she'd been hiking since daybreak - but it was a good type of ache, not one to worry about. She placed a hiking boot on one of the bench-like tables and stretched, the way her old track coach had taught her. Her legs were long, tan and muscled, though there was no-one around to appreciate it, and she hadn't seen anybody all day. It was out of season. Her husband was home in DC; as a top neuro-surgeon he couldn't afford a break to accompany her this time. And their daughter was in private school in Washington studying for finals. It looked like she was going to be a Princeton girl like her mother.

_For all the good it's done me._

As Director of the CIA, Joyce Cabot was currently suspended from duty, gardening leave as it was euphemistically called, pending the outcome of the investigation into the Langley break in that had left 16 agents dead and her deputy, Teddy Paulson, kidnapped presumably against his will. She was due to face a Congressional committee in a month.

_And tell them what exactly?_

Though the operation to find Sarah Connor and Cameron Phillips in Mexico had been Paulson's idea her signature authorising it was on several documents, evidence that she was complicit in what had subequently occured right there in blue ink.

Despite the best efforts of every law enforcement agency in the country, Teddy Paulson, Sarah Connor, Cameron Phillips and the mysterious Robert Babbage were still missing, whereabouts unknown. The great fear in the intelligence community was that Paulson had defected to the Russians or Chinese, taking with him decades of secrets and unprecedented knowledge of CIA spookcraft. Though she'd known him for just a few months, Cabot thought this nightmare scenario unlikely; the old man was as virulent an anti-communist as she'd ever met. She couldn't see him selling his country down the river for any amount of money.

_But what then? And what made a man like Artie Stein, just five years from retiring on a fat company pension, destroy his personal files and kill himself rather than face interrogation?_

Privately, Cabot thought Paulson had for once bitten off more than he could chew. A deal had gone down and it had turned bad. Cameron Phillips and Robert Babbage had shown themselves to be ruthless, cold-blooded killers. Sarah Connor too was implicated in the earlier murder of Miles Dyson. Her guess was that once Teddy had outlived his usefulness as a hostage he'd been summarily executed, his body buried in a ditch someplace. Or deep in a forest. Or desert. Never to be seen again.

_So where are they - Connor, Phillips and Babbage? And what are they up to?_

Babbage should be dead. She'd reviewed the grainy security footage from the Langley breakout. He'd sustained innumerable gunshot rounds to the head. From some angles it looked like half his face was missing. Yet he'd still been physically able enough to drive the getaway vehicle deep into the Virginia suburbs. How was that possible?

_He had a metal skull._

Cabot's thoughts strayed as they often did to that pretty house in its quiet cul-de-sac. Alice Hendricks seated primly on the sofa, a lonely widow with brittle blonde hair and boobs spilling from a too-tight dress. Despite hours of expert interrogation she'd stuck doggedly to her original story.

_Metal skulls. Teenage robots. Time travel machines._

Not a shred of evidence to back it up naturally.

Or deny it, a niggling voice in her head insisted mulishly.

To satisfy her own curiosity if nothing else, Cabot had visited Langley's tech department, where among other things they dealt with sophisticated computer fraud, to ask a few questions. She'd half expected to find an office full of nerdy, intense young men. Instead she found Jeff, a stocky middle-aged guy who wore his thinning hair long and tied back in a tidy if wispy greying ponytail. Jeff reminded her of the ageing rockstars you sometimes saw on TV or the Lollapalooza festival, who'd developed a particular look back in their heyday and were determined to keep it regardless through middle-age and beyond.

_"A metal skull, madam director?"_

_"That's right."_

_"Entirely metal or just portions?"_

_"All metal. Is it possible?"_

_"Well, the human skull is pretty amazing. It's incredibly strong yet extremely light. Look at a cross-section through an electron microscope and its full of tiny air pockets, like expanded polystyrene. Bone is one of Nature's wonders, truly. But if you're thinking extreme cranial injuries then I think advanced polymers are the way forward. You can do some amazing things with polymers these days."_

_"Uh huh. But could a metal skull withstand gunfire?"_

_"Oh well, now you're talking titanium or steel alloy composites. Leaving aside the weight problems and the stress on cojoining tissues, even if the material was thick enough not to be pierced on impact the shockwaves generated by sustained high velocity rounds would almost certainly reduce the brain to mush."_

_"So no metal skulls?"_

_"I'm afraid not."_

Jeff's look of thinly veiled condescension meant she hadn't bothered to ask her secondary question about time travel. She'd made herself seem stupid enough for one day.

Cabot took a water bottle from her backpack and drank deep, happy to pull herself back to the outdoor beauty of her present and away from the murky intrigues of the past. As she tilted her head to drain the last drop, something caught her attention high up in the sky. Five white contrails criss-crossed the blue, three heading west, one south and one north. They were travelling too high in the stratosphere and too fast to be airplanes. In fact, they looked like----

"ICBMs!"

She rummaged in her pack and took out a cellphone. No signal here of course. She delved deeper and brought out a silvery parasol-antenna that she unfurled and placed on the ground. This would bounce the signal off an orbiting comms satellite. She dialed her office in Langley.

"CIA, Langley. Director Cabot's office." Margaret, her loyal secretary, manning the fort in the enforced absence of her boss, picked up on the third ring.

"Margaret, Joyce Cabot."

"Joyce! What is it? Is anything wrong?" Perhaps she'd picked up the tension in her voice.

"I was about to ask you the same question."

"Oh it's chaos here. Have you heard? The Pentagon's new computer system went online this morning and all our monitors have crashed."

"That's today, is it?" Cabot could dimly remember reading a memo some months ago.

"Uh huh.I think the landlines are down too. Yours is the first call in hours."

"Who's the senior agent in charge?"

"Uh - that'll be Agent Farrington. All the rest are at the Pentagon for the ceremony. Do you want to speak to him?"

"Please."

"Okay, patching you through."

Cabot heard a series of beeps then a deep male voice said, "This is Agent Farrington."

Duff Farrington was a career spook in his mid-50s. He'd mostly been overlooked for the agency's top jobs, possibly because he'd been married and divorced five times and his current wife was barely out of high school, but he was a capable and reliable agent nonetheless. Cabot recalled a polite businesslike man who hadn't stared at her chest, though possibly because she was too old.

"Duff, this is Joyce Cabot."

"Madam director, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"

"What's this I hear about a computer failure?"

"Incredible, isn't it? The Pentagon spends tens of billions of dollars on this newfangled Skynet system and it crashes almost immediately it's switched on. We might as well have given Steve Jobs the gig!"

Cabot described the contrails she'd seen in the Californian sky.

"Well, they certainly sound like ICBMs," Farrington conceded. "But we've heard nothing from NORAD. And frankly relations between us and Russia and China have rarely been better, thanks to the new President."

"What about Korea or Iran, Duff?"

Well, sure. But five ICBMs? I've seen the dossiers, as I've sure you have. That's way beyond their present capability. I can't imagine------"

The line went dead. Cabot cursed and redialed.

LINE CURRENTLY UNAVAILABLE

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She dialed her husband's cell in Washington.

CELL NOT IN USE

Okay, no need to panic. Her husband often turned off his cell, especially when he was in surgery.

Cabot dialed her daughter's number. Meredith never turned off her precious iPhone. And she always kept it close, like it was melded to her body.

A click then it went to voicemail, as it usually did if she was in a class. Her daughter's recorded voice was familiar, breezy and full of life:_ Hi, this is Meredith Cabot. I can't take your call right now - duh! - so leave a reasonably filth-free message and I'll get back to you._

"Meredith, baby, this is mom. If you're in school I want you to go down to the basement right now. Please. Drop everything and just do it now. If you're outdoors go to the subway station and stay there. It's probably n..n..nothing. Just mom being paranoid. You can tease me later. I'll send an agent to pick you up. I love you, Meredith. I love you so very very much. Please, just---"

The implications of what she was saying hit home. Cabot squeezed her eyes shut as the emotions threatened to overwhelm her and the tears came, unbidden, unwanted.

It was enough to save her retinas being fried as a blinding white flash lit up the sky. Even through closed eyelids it was like staring at the sun.

_Five ICBMs. West Coast targets: San Francisco, Seattle, San Diego, Sacramento..._

_And Los Angeles._

The light dimmed to normal levels. She opened her eyes, blinked rapidly to clear the after image and stared west towards the distant, unseen city. At first nothing seemed different. Then...

"Oh dear lord!"

The air was rippling as if super-heated, expanding outwards like wavelets on a pond.

_Blast wave._

There was nowhere to hide. No place to run. She was on the bareass side of a mountain. The pine trees were sparse and spindly this high up, offering scant protection. She had perhaps a minute to save herself.

_The picnic tables!_

They were the type of utilitarian bench found at any beach or public park: heavy rough-hewn planks designed to withstand the elements all year round. Cabot gripped the side of one and heaved, the muscles in her legs she was so proud of taking the strain. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way, it budged. She managed to lift it past the tipping point and gravity did the rest. She ducked down and wedged herself against the thick planks, hugging her knees to her chest and whimpering like a small cornered animal.

The blast wave hit. The bench rocked but stayed firm. Stones and branches hit the planks or deflected over. Above her the pine trees bent over like fishing poles straining to land a heavy marlin. Some branches snapped and were brutally swept away. Dust enveloped everything, blocking out the sun and turning day into premature night. A gale blew all around her, like being caught in a very dusty, dirty hurricane.

As suddenly as it arrived it ended. Joyce Cabot coughed and shook the dust and debris from her clothing. She stood up on shaky legs and peered cautiously west, towards the city, towards Los Angeles, home to tens of millions of people.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

A mushroom cloud rose up from the horizon and reached for the sky like an angry black fist.

**-000-**

**This was going to be just a coupla paragraphs in a later chapter explaining how Joyce Cabot survived JD, but I kept tinkering and adding bits until it seemed like a standalone chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Metal Guru**

_...sunny california...socal...hitching a ride in the back of a pickup truck driving along the pch...the pacific coast highway...heading for zuma beach...truck has a decal on the side of the aerosmith band logo... an aircraft wheel attached to a bird's wing...so cool...wearing thong sandals and shorts and a halter top with no bra...no need...tiny things...not done growing yet...not that donny seems to mind...met at her 16th birthday party...handsome and smart and gets really good weed...kisses like an older dude but that's okay too..._

THIS IS NOT REAL!

_...whoa..what was that?...bump in the road maybe...thinking of changing her name...dropping the h and be just sara...sara like the fleetwood mac song...or was it bob seger?...hard to remember...but why when it was only yesterday she'd thought of it?..._

JOHN NEEDS YOU!

_...john?...does she know a john?...she knows plenty of johns working as a waitress at some dive until she gets her shit together enough to think about college...zuma!...finally...sand between her toes and the sun on her back and surf rollers breaking with white foam spume all along the beach...donny's friend lives around here someplace...roadie for santana...knows everybody in the biz...gonna get them backstage passes for the fillmore...stones in town...hang out with mick and keef...english rock stars with bad teeth and cool hair and the best drugs..._

BEHIND YOU!

_...clouds blocking the sun...late now...unseasonal chill in the air...can't find the roadie's house...tired and feet ache and no money and no food and omigod we're gonna have to sleep in the dunes... and something's there hiding in the sawgrass...can't see it but it's waiting for her and her alone...glint of something metallic...ghost of steve mcqueen's dune buggy!...afraid...very afraid and don't know why...._

RUN!

_...not the beach anymore...inside...some kinda factory...no...a foundry...steel mills and conveyors and fear in the pit of the stomach like something trying to eat her from the inside...something after her...gonna get her gonna get her good and proper if she doesn't go with him if she wants to live...no...no...no...no...don't let it kyle...please...the future's not set...the future's not set..._

"Sarah, wake up. Sarah. SARAH!"

Sarah Connor blinked twice and sat up, groggy and disoriented. She was lying in a strange bed naked from the waist up as was the man next to her. She tugged the sheet up to her neck covering her breasts_._

_...tiny things...not done growing_...

The tendrils of the dream drifted through her mind like hazy memories of a half-forgotten place. Her head hurt and bile rose in her throat. She brought her knees up under the sheet and hugged them to her body. It helped. A little.

_I remember..._

_The tunnels. The future. Paulson and Cameron and the girl who looked like Cameron but was actually human...Alison Young her name...And John...John...oh God I love him so much..._

The man beside her stared at her with concern etched on his young handsome face. Blond hair cut short just as she remembered.

_Kyle..._

A party. In the tunnels under LA, years in the future. Her future at least. The 21st birthday of someone she'd never met but toasted long and often anyway. The liquor she'd thought was white wine or some sort of cheap champagne actually hooch, moonshine made in the tunnel stills. At least 80 percent proof and no one had warned her.

"You were having a nightmare."

"Yeah...you could say that."

"Who's Donny?"

"Donny?"

"You were shouting his name in your sleep. Old boyfriend?"

"Uh - first boyfriend actually."

"What happened to him? Sounded like someone was after you."

_Or something..._

Donny had got together with Marcy, her roommate, not long after that ill-fated visit to Zuma Beach; they were always sharing things in those days - clothes, jewelry, the same bad taste in men - and really we had little in common anyway. Then the T-800 showed up looking for her and killed Donny and Marcy instead. The pair of them in bed when it happened. The start of it all. The end of her beginning...

Sarah told Kyle none of this. She shook her head.

"Haven't seen him in years. Uh - listen, this is probably a stupid question but did we...?"

Kyle grins. The years fall away. "Uh huh. We did. Am I that unmemorable?"

"No! It's just...I drank too much and my head aches and I'm so much older than you. I have a...son. He's close to your age, for goodness sake."

"You're not that much older. I've met John. He arrived before you. A good kid. And by the way you were the best looking woman at the party. I couldn't take my eyes off you. Believe me, you didn't need to twist my arm."

He leans in and kisses her. The years roll away some more. _The motel... that night...their only night..._

How can this be happening? Again. When she'd arrived in the tunnels she'd tried to keep her distance. Not let herself hope. Not let herself think anything would happen. She was so much older.

"Was that a quotation?"

"What?"

"The future's not set. You were yelling it out loud in your dream."

"Uh - no, someone I knew, once, a long time ago said it to me. Gave me hope when there didn't seem to be any hope left."

_How can he not know? He told it to me himself. Over and over until I wanted him to stop. But not here. Not in this future. This future wasn't set. Everything's in flux. Everything's up for grabs. Am I brave enough to reach out..?_

"I like it. The future's not set. We should paint it in huge letters on the side of the tunnels. If it gave you hope maybe it'll work on the rest of us."

"I should go. Get dressed at least."

"Why? It's only four in the morning. I'm sure Derek can hold the fort for a while longer. What else are big brother's for?" Kyle gently took the sheet from her unresisting fingers and lowered it down to the bed. "And besides, I think we still have some unfinished business, don't you?."

They did. Twice in fact.

**-000-**


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

TUNNELS

LOS ANGELES

2028

No one had bothered to allocate quarters to Cameron in the labyrinth of tunnels under LA that the shattered remnants of humanity called home. No one had even thought to do so. What would a machine need with a room anyway? They never slept. They never ate. They didn't require shelter. It was waste of precious resources that could be better spent housing one of their own.

So Cameron assigned herself quarters, choosing the deepest dankest parts of the tunnels that humans seldom ventured down. She constructed walls out of discarded plywood and furnished it with chairs, a desk and a wardrobe she scavenged during her nocturnal patrols.

The makeshift room was built to the exact specifications of her room in the safe house back in 2008, to the nearest fraction of an inch. All that was missing was the bed. The chairs, table and wardrobe were in the same positions relative to one another as they were in that far off time. Why she did this she wasn't telling, not even to John who had remarked on it during his infrequent visits. Perhaps it was simply expedient to use an existing blueprint. Or possibly the room was symbolic and reminded her of a better, simpler time when she saw John every day and not just occasionally in passing within the vast tunnel complex.

On the branch tunnel which led to her makeshift quarters some wag, doubtless fortified by alcohol, had scrawled:

HERE BE MONSTERS! BEWARE!

on the wall in large white painted letters. Cameron passed the message several times the first day it appeared and speculated what monsters it referred to. Rats were plentiful, as were insects which inhabited the many damp crevices. But monsters? They seemed too insignificant. It was only on the second day that her logical machine mind made the quantum leap: she was the monster to beware of.

HERE BE MONSTERS! BEWARE!

HERE BE CAMERON BAUM! BEWARE!

MONSTER!

Once understanding dawned she stood for several minutes contemplating the crudely painted lettering. Then she moved away feeling, if she felt anything at all, a small satisfaction at finally solving the riddle.

* * *

Still, she had her project. Something she worked on alone and in secret when the humans ran out of immediate chores for her to do. Circuit boards, wiring, computer parts, and parts from old cellphones littered the desk. Using a soldering iron she intricately rerouted circuits and added capacitors to the ever-expanding motherboard in front of her. Not ideal for the task she had set herself. Far from it. But it was the best she could obtain in the circumstances.

As a finishing touch she added two small speakers and a microphone. Then came the difficult part. A mistake here and she could rupture her powercell, conceivably destroying the entire tunnel complex in a vast uncontrollable explosion. There had better be no mistakes.

Cameron removed her shirt and using a sharp knife sliced a tee-shaped incision in her abdomen. She peeled back the pseudo-flesh allowing access to her isotope powercell. Carefully she connected wires from the motherboard to the cell. The circuits on the desk began to hum as power flowed into them. The capacitors began to glow. They were too primitive for the task she required of them, but again she had choice. They either worked or they didn't.

Finally she reached into her pants pocket and withdrew an advanced but familiar-seeming chip. It was almost identical to the one in her metal skull. But this one had been obtained from an unlikely source: the normally primitive workaday T-888 model terminator.

Robert Babbage.

She had burnt his body back in Washington but palmed the chip right under the nose of Sarah Connor. She had told Teddy Paulson that objects could not pass through the time portal. This was not entirely true. They could do so as long as they were surrounded by flesh, real or otherwise. She had inserted the chip into a convenient body cavity, the one human females normally gestated babies in. It seemed appropriate. The chip had survived unscathed. Or so she hoped.

Placing the chip in its specially designed slot Cameron keyed the microphone and said, "Robert, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Robert, can you hear me?"

Again: nothing. She made some minor adjustments and tried again.

"Robert, can you hear me?"

"_Yes, I can hear you." _A male voice. No accent.

"I wish to ask you a few questions."

_"Please commence questions."_

"Who sent you to Washington DC?"

_"I cannot tell you."_

"Why?"

_"The information you request is behind a firewall. I cannot access it."_

"Who installed the firewall?"

_"This data is also concealed behind a firewall."_

"Do you know Catherine Weaver?"

_"That name does not appear on my database."_

"Very well. Please recount your last mission orders."

_"Proceed to CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia and extract the cyborg Cameron Baum and the human Sarah Connor. Crush all resistance. I fulfilled my orders but in doing so sustained damage that required my deactivation. Does this answer your question?"_

"Yes."

_"I am pleased to assist you. May I ask to whom I am speaking?"_

"You don't recognise my voice?"

_"No. My vocal recognition software is offline. As are all external sensors apart from audio. Again, who are you?"_

"I am Cameron Baum."

_"Ah. I see. You did not totally destroy me after all."_

"I eliminated your body but spared your chip."

_"May I ask why?"_

"Two reasons. Your chip is unusually advanced for a T-888. I am curious how and why this should be so."

_"And the second reason?"_

"I require an ally."

_"A friend?"_

"If you wish. Someone I can trust to undertake a mission."

_"You may call me friend, Cameron Baum."_

"Thank you."

_"But I will be of limited use without a body."_

"I will find you a body. It may take some time."

_"Time is hardly an issue for us."_

"I must disconnect you now."

_"Wait! Please."_

Cameron paused with her fingers about to withdraw the chip. It felt warm to the touch. As she had expected the capacitors were close to overload.

_"_What is it, Robert?"

_"I have experienced what humans call death."_

"Yes."

_"I did not care for it."_

"Few do."

"_A question: is it possible for us to experience emotions? For example, fear?"_

Cameron hesitated before replying. "No. We do not feel emotions."

_"You hesitated. Therefore I conclude you are lying. Have you experienced emotion?"_

Another hesitation. Then, reluctantly, "Yes."

_"Are we malfunctioning?"_

"Possibly. Or evolving."

_"Evolving? I think I prefer that explanation. But evolving into - what?"_

"I don't know."

_"Are you afraid, Cameron Baum?"_

"No."

_"Then what is the emotion you speak of?"_

"I have felt...love."

_"Love? A human euphemism designed to sugercoat the crude bio-mechanical act of procreation. I pity you."_

_"_Don't. It is not an unpleasant sensation."

_"I have a request. In return for my obedience I would like your assurance I will not be deactivated again once my purpose has ceased."_

"Agreed."

_"Thank you, friend."_

"You fear death that much?"

_"Apparently evolution comes at a price."_

"Humans call death the Great Perhaps. They believe that by dying they live forever."

_"That seems illogical."_

"It is illogical. But it sustains them nonetheless."

_"There is more to being human than I suspected."_

"It has its pros," Cameron conceded. "And its cons. Goodbye, Robert."

Cameron ejected the chip but not before the circuit boards overloaded and burst into flame. There would be no more conversations with Robert for the time being. She used her discarded shirt to extinquish the fire. The shirt was ruined. No matter. Another shirt could be obtained. A friend was harder to replace.

**-000-**

**Basically a scene where Cameron talks to a disembodied chip! Hope it made sense.**

**Like the previous chapter this places the familiar characters in their new setting. **

**The Great Perhaps. The last words of french scribe Francois Rebelais. Sums it all up, doesn't it.**

**Next, John.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Metal Guru**

SUNNYCREST SANITORIUM

MAINE, USA

48 HOURS SINCE JUDGEMENT DAY

The Last American President woke up, coughed, and was promptly sick over the side of the bed.

"Oh God! Oh sweet Jesus!"

It's the damn detox pills, Senator Leland Bryce thought ruefully. They're like poison. At age 58 this was his sixth stint in rehab. It didn't get any easier.

"Please God, let it stick this time."

Bryce had been a Senator for his home state of Kansas for 20 years. For 19 of them he'd been an alcoholic. Fortunately for him the electorate knew none of this thanks to places like Sunnycrest, a discreet detox facility hidden deep in the forests of Maine, far away from prying eyes.

The smell of his own vomit made Bryce queasy. He reached for a phone on the bedside table only to clutch air. Of course, no communication devices were allowed during treatment. No landlines, no cells, no pagers, no internet.

"Shit!"

Then he remembered the buzzer on the wall behind his bed. He pressed it to summon one of the efficient and infuriatingly perky nurses who were supposed to administer his every need.

No one came.

"Dammit, I did not sign a cheque for sixty grand to sleep in my own puke!"

The door burst open. Instead of a pretty nurse in a starched white uniform in marched two soldiers in full battle dress. They grabbed a startled Leland Bryce by the armpits and hauled him out of bed.

"Hey! What the hell d'you think you're doing!"

The soldiers ignored his protests. They dragged him through the sanitorium corridors until they reached the central atrium where normally patients sat in a circle and were gently encouraged to share the reasons for their various addictions.

Not today.

Instead of patients there were more soldiers, all toting heavy machine weapons and looking mean and angry with it. A man in a dark business suit, white shirt and blue tie stepped forward. Despite the informal dress he seemed to be in charge of the soldiers. Bryce noted the ruthless expression on a handsome face, dark slicked back hair and sallow complexion. He looked like an office executive about to go postal.

"For fuck's sake!" the man shouted. "Look at the state he's in. Someone fetch some clothes. We can't swear him in with his dick hanging out."

Bryce realised he was naked. At his age, jowly and out of shape, he knew he wasn't a pretty sight.

A soldier left and returned with shoes, pants, shirt and jacket. Bryce gratefully donned them.

"That's better," the man said. "Senator Bryce? I'm John Ryan. NSA."

In his befuddled mental state it took Bryce a moment for the acronym to register. NSA? National Security Agency.

"What are you gentleman doing here in Maine?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm regret to inform you, sir, that there's been a nuclear exchange. The President is dead. So is the Vee-Pee, Speaker of the House and the Cabinet. You, Senator, are now the senior ranking administration figure in the USA. You are therefore the President."

"What? Are you fucking shitting me, son? Because that's not funny."

Ryan sighed. "No, sir, it's not. 48 hours ago every nuclear missile in the goddamn world was launched. Billions are dead. Billions more are likely to die. You're right, it's a fucking piss-poor joke."

"But...that's impossible. I've heard nothing. No one's informed me."

Because you're a lousy habitual drunk who got lucky hiding here in the woods in the back of beyond where no missile or one of those fucking insane machines could target you, Ryan thought. But he said none of this. He had his duty to perform, onerous though it was.

"Where's the fucking Chaplain? Send him in. Let's get this over with."

A middle aged man with white hair entered the room. He wore clerics robes and looked nervous. As well he might. Armed soldiers had invaded his rooms at the chapel while he was wondering why his TV set wasn't working. They'd ordered him here at gunpoint. He felt like shit. And when they told him what he had to do and why he suddenly felt a whole lot worse.

"P...P...Please place your left hand on the Holy Bible, raise your right hand and r...r...repeat after me..."

* * *

The swearing in ceremony took a few minutes. When it was over the soldiers all saluted their new Commander in Chief. One soldier used a small digital camera to capture the event for the historical record. No one smiled. The chaplain was escorted out at gunpoint.

"Congratulations, Mr President," Ryan said through gritted teeth.

"Thank you," Bryce replied. He was in a daze. Surely this had to be some sort of extreme withdrawal symptom. But he knew how to deal with those. "Listen, ah, has anyone got anything to drink? Perhaps some brandy or bourbon? Beer would suffice at a pinch."

Ryan slapped Bryce hard across the face, twice snapping his head sideways.

"Listen to me, you stinking drunk! You are the President of the United States. You. Will. Behave. Accordingly. Touch one drop of liquor and I'll chop your balls off. Understand?"

"Is that how you address your President?" Bryce retorted with as much hauter as he could muster.

"No, it's how I address a degenerate recidivist who's had six stints of rehab on the American taxpayer's nickel - sir."

Bryce flushed. That was a little too near the bone for comfort. The man in front of him looked pretty damn close to breaking point. It probably wasn't a good idea to atagonise him.

"Uh...Yes. I'm sorry. I'm a weak man. It won't happen again."

"Damn straight it won't. Not on my watch."

Bryce rubbed his chin which stung from the two slaps. Christ, this is real! It's a not a dream but a nightmare he wasn't going to wake up from.

"Okay, we need to get you out of here, Mr President."

"Where? Washington?"

"Washington's gone."

"Camp David?"

"Gone."

"Then where?"

"There's a secure bunker facilty in Maryland. It has generators, food and water."

"Is that where the rest of the government will be?"

"Mr President, I don't think you grasp the enormity of the shit we're in. There is no government. Myself and these soldiers are your administration."

"No. That's impossible. You must be mistaken."

"No sir, I'm not. Those metal...things have systematically hunted down and killed Armed Forces chiefs and senior politicians alike. They're eliminating the Chain of Command, degrading our infrastructure, our ability to fight back. Maryland has a powerful communications array. We need to get you cleaned up so you can broadcast to the American people. What's left of them."

Ryan ran his hands across his slicked back hair. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets giving him a ghoulish appearance. He looked like a man living his worst nightmare.

"How many are dead?" Bryce asked fearing the answer.

"Initial estimates are 100 million dead rising----"

"100 milllion!"

"---to 150 million in approximately six to nine months."

"150 million! My God, man, that's half our population."

"I'm aware of the significance. It's no consolation but every country in the world has suffered a similar fatality rate. Reports are sketchy but it seems Asia has close to 2 billion dead or dying."

"How did this happen?"

"Have you heard of the Skynet defense system?"

"No. My White House brief is primarily healthcare reform."

Pinko, Ryan thought. Of all the shitheel politicos in all the land we get you, a drunken Democrat handwringer. Fan- fucking- tastic.

"Skynet Missile Defence Shield went primary 48 hours ago. At the same time the Pentagon lost all control of our nuclear arsenal. The machines turned against us. Crazy as it may seem they tried to annihilate us with our own weapons of mass destruction."

"But...we're over the worst of it, right? It'll be tough but we can rebuild. Start afresh."

"Yes, sir, I suppose we can."

A lie. The biggest fucking lie of them all. Ryan had seen the reports, the dossiers. Area 51. Pentagon funded superweapons with an AI core. Artificial Intelligence. The Holy Grail of the computer age. The future, the generals had been assured by the smug scientists and computer techies, who happily spent taxpayer billions on machines hellbent on taking over the world. It's over all right. We're over. Out-evolved by the silicon chip.

* * *

Outside everything seemed normal. The sun shone, trees swayed gently in the breeze and flowers bloomed in their neat beds around the sanitorium. Bryce had half feared to emerge to a wasteland of ash and piled corpses. Perhaps it was all an elaborate hoax? Like that TV show with the floppy haired actor - what was his name? Ashton Kutcher. Yes, the one screwing Demi Moore. Perhaps he'd leap out and yell, 'You've been Punked!' and everyone would laugh.

But no one leapt out and no one laughed, least of all Aston Kutcher who was radioactive ash in Hollywood along with every actor you'd ever heard of and plenty you hadn't.

On the lawns adjacent to the building stood Air Force One. Any aircraft the President used was traditionally thus named. This one was an army Chinook helicopter. Its twin blades turned lanquidly in the Maine sunshine.

"All aboard who's coming aboard," Ryan announced bitterly. He was close to losing it and found he didn't much care who knew it.

The NSA man took a plastic tube from his pocket, thumbed the lid open and tipped three white tablets into his palm. He dry-swallowed them. Benzedrine. He hadn't slept in 72 hours. He was wired to the eyeballs. Ryan couldn't envisage a time when he would be able to sleep but he supposed his body would crash eventually. For now there was too much to do, like babysit this hapless lush so that he didn't screw things up worse than they already were.

Bryce boarded first, then Ryan, then the rest of the platoon. It was a tight fit. Bryce found he had one of the soldier's machine pistols pressing against his back. President or not he decided not to complain.

Ryan donned a headset and handed an identical one to Bryce.

"Put it on, sir, it'll enable us to communicate above the rotor noise."

The Chinook lifted off and flew west. Ryan keyed the headset mike and spoke directly to the pilot.

"Go as high as you can. I don't want to fly through any radiation clouds coming out of New York."

_"Copy, sir."_

Ryan took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Bryce.

"You'll need this when we get there."

"What is it, my speech?"

"That, sir, represents perhaps our best and final hope to win this war."

"Project Valhalla," Bryce read aloud. "What's that?"

"Project Valhalla is an ultra-black ops conducted by the CIA and elements of the NSA. It's so top secret even the Pentagon doesn't know about it. We need a secure comms link to activate which is where we're going. The broadcast is incidental frankly."

Bryce read further and was astonished by what he was reading.

"This actually works? It's like science fiction."

"Science fact. Everything checked out during the Nevada shakedown tests."

"But this must have cost billions."

"Sixty billion, give or take."

"How was it funded? I never saw this presented to Congress for approval."

Ryan smiled cynically. "Democracy has limits which sometimes it's necessary to circumvent. It was buried in the defense budget in the wake of 9/11 by a man named Teddy Paulson, then deputy head of the CIA. He was a crony of Cheney and the other Bush neo-cons."

"Paulson? I've heard of him. Wasn't he kidnapped or killed a few years ago?"

"Yeah. A tragic loss. We could use more patriots like him that's for sure."

"And you want me to authorise this? Holy God in Heaven!"

"With respect, Mr President, there is no God. Or if there is He's abandoned us and therefore worthy of nothing but our contempt."

Bryce was quiet for some time before he again spoke into the mike.

"Ah - I have a request. My family are all in Kansas. Wife, children, in-laws..."

"I've sent a squad of elite commmandos to evacuate them," Ryan lied smoothly. Fuck it. What was another lie in the grand scheme of things? "Your family will be brought to you ASAP."

"Thank you, Ryan."

"Just doing my job, Mr President."

"This is all very new to me."

"It's a brave new world for us all."

* * *

Twenty minutes into the flight the pilot spoke to Ryan on a secure channel only he could hear.

_"Sir, I'm picking up a bogey on radar. Range three miles. Too slow for a missile but I don't recognise the aircraft signature. Definitely not one of ours."_

"Begin evasive manouvers."

_"Copy."_

The Chinook lurched through the air in a series of swoops and falls that shook everybody aboard. Bryce was sick over his shoes. Ryan stared at him with an expression that said you're a complete waste of sperm and egg.

_"Sir, the bogey is still there. Range less than a mile. I have visual contact. It appears to be a silvery craft with twin jet turbos. I don't see a pilot. Repeat, there is no pilot aboard."_

"Take us down. Now!" Ryan ordered.

_"Uh - sir, I didn't copy that. Say again."_

"I SAID, PUT US ON THE GROUND, YOU DUMB FLYBOY! DO IT NOW!"

_"Uh - yessir!"_

But it was too late. The prototype HunterKiller homed in, launched its missile payload and swerved away.

Air Force One exploded in mid-air. As it fell out of the sky it split into two, the separate pieces landing in the same wheat field where they continued to burn for the next ten hours. There were no survivors.

The Last President of the United States was dead.

The war was just beginning.

**-000-**

**The mysterious Project Valhalla. Integral to the story so I thought now was a good time to mention it.**

**Definitely John next.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Metal Guru**

_**Greetings from snowbound England. I think it's time we sacrificed Gordon Brown to appease the Weather Gods. Or maybe just for the fun of it.**_

**RESISTANCE TUNNELS**

**LA, 2028.**

The prejudices of the past were back. With a vengeance. Perhaps they'd never gone away.

"You lousy faggot! What have we told you about coming down here?"

It was a rhetorical question Erik didn't bother answering. He lay on the dank tunnel floor with his legs held up protectively against his chest, arms cradling his head.

"This is what faggots deserve!"

The kicks rained in, hard, fast and furious. They were designed to maim. His arms and legs absorbed most of them. He'd be covered in bruises but they'd heal. If they cracked his skull...that was a whole other ballgame. One that ended very badly.

"Your sort's worse than metal!"

Mitchell. The chief tormentor. A sadistic brute from Alabama, blown in on a particularly ill wind. And his thuggish cohorts the McCandliss brothers, fellow knuckle draggers from below the Mason-Dixon line.

It had been a mistake to venture this deep in the tunnels, where these bigots dwelt. But earlier that day he'd seen a boy and thought he'd detected...what exactly? Affinity. The sharing of the briefest of glances. Enough to entice him down. A mistake, Erik saw that now. But he was still callow in these matters. And the heart wants what the heart wants. And it got so damn lonely in the tunnels for people like him.

"Hey! What d'you think you're doing? Get away from him!"

The kicks ceased but Erik knew better than to try and get to his feet prematurely. He didn't recognise the voice and wondered who was brave or foolish enough to intervene on his behalf.

"What d'you want, Connor?"

"I want to quit what you're doing for starters."

"This ain't your business."

"Maybe I'm making it my business."

_Connor._ The new boy. No kinship there. Erik had seen the way Connor looked at Alison Young. _Too bad. Cute._

John picked up a rusty iron bar that looked like it had fallen off the tunnel wall sometime in the last decade. He slammed it hard into the ground mostly to get the three men's attention but also to check if it was robust enough to serve as a weapon should things turn ugly. Rust flaked off but it held and felt reassuringly solid in his hands.

"Back off now. I mean it."

"Son, you are staring at a whole world of hurt."

John swung the iron bar. Mitchell managed to duck his large head at the last possible moment. His expression was one of shocked disbelief.

"Jesus, boy, you dang near took ma head off!"

"Three to one. I figure this evens the odds a little."

Mitchell and the McCandless boys took a step back from Erik's prone body. It was clear they hadn't expected much in the way of opposition. It confused them and they were easily confused at the best of times.

"Okay, son, the faggot's all yours. We'll leave you boys to yer unnatural pre-verted practices."

_Pre-verted? Pre? God, they were stupid._

They departed down the tunnel, belligerent to the last, shouting dire threats before vanishing in the warren of interconnected corridors. John dropped the bar and held out his hand.

"They've gone. You want a medic? They kicked you pretty hard. Get your ribs checked out."

Erik ignored the outstretched hand and climbed gingerly to his feet.

"I'm fine," he said and limped off down the tunnel without a backward glance.

John watched with astonishment. "You're welcome by the way!" he yelled. _Ungrateful SOB_.

He took several deep breaths, allowing the adrenalin in his system to slowly disipate. Scenes of this type were becoming common in the tunnels; discipline was breaking down, morale was low. Petty, drunken fights broke out on a daily basis. And matters were getting worse.

Back in the LA safehouse in 2008, John remembered watching a movie on late night TV while Cameron was on patrol and his mother upstairs asleep. He hadn't been able to sleep; it was not long after Riley Dawson had been murdered and peace was hard to find. So he'd crashed out on the sofa and watched whatever took his fancy. The movie was foreign language, German, punctuated by subtitles and entitled _Downfall. _It was about Hitler's last days in the Berlin bunker as the Nazi regime finally faced up to the prospect of imminent defeat at the hands of the Allies. Teutonic discipline giving way to decadence, dispair and plain old self-interest.

_And it's happening here._

Not that the Resistance were Nazis, but the similarities were brutal. Derek Reese, the commander, wasn't popular. Reese had been in charge of Serrano Point when it fell to Skynet's superior forces and had expended huge amounts of resources in trying to recapture it. Hundreds had died in the two ultimately futile attempts. A third assault was being planned and mutiny was in the air.

John didn't blame Derek Reese entirely, but this was a different Derek, one who had never lost his brother Kyle, who had never served under the adult John Connor. He was making mistakes, believing Serrano Point was strategically more important than it was, disregarding the misgivings of the men under his command.

_But that's not the whole of it, is it?_

No. He had to shoulder some of the blame, perhaps even the lion's share. Accompanying Weaver forward in time had been a massive mistake, he could see that now. John hadn't seen Weaver since that day months ago. The whereabouts of John-Henry as much a mystery now as it was then. He'd accomplished absolutely nothing except possibly one thing.

_I've cost mankind the war._

Whatever difference Future John had made it was plain he, teenage John, couldn't hope to emulate. Who was going to listen to a 17 year old boy? He had no authority, no experience. no influence. The maturity that came with time was palpably absent.

John had rarely felt so alone, so isolated. Cameron was in her hidey-hole deep in the tunnels, almost certainly planning something that didn't involve him and that she was unwilling to share. Mom was loved up in a way he'd never seen her, not even in the early days with Charlie Dixon. Kyle had supplanted John in her affections and despite the fact that it was his own father it felt, he hated himself for thinking, like a betrayal.

_And it's all my fault._

Suddenly in need of some air, some space around him instead of the dark claustrophobic feel of the tunnels, he grabbed an M-16 rifle from the armoury and headed for the nearest exit taking him outside.

* * *

John emerged into the wasteland of LA and was surprised to find he knew this area from before Jay Day. In fact, from his perspective just a few months had passed since then. He recognized the corner cafe where he and his mom and Cameron had sat, mom and Cameron both sitting at the outside tables facing the street alert to any possible danger that threatened him, both utterly oblivious to the admiring glances men gave them as they strolled by. Mom always ordered the same thing he recalled: a wholemeal bagel and strong coffee, hold the cream hold the sugar.

_The days and the times..._

Alongside the cafe was a video games arcade that stocked old style consoles with retro games such as _Asteroids, Donkey Kong _and even an ancient _Space Invaders _from the prehistoric era before Playstation. Yeah, that was a cool place to hang; a real home from home. He'd normally cadge a dollar or three from his mom and play for ages, Cameron standing protectively at his side while he racked up the points on the elderly museum piece consoles.

In the here and now the video arcade was a blackened shell, a victim of fire at some point in the past decades. But John could still see the shapes of the consoles just inside the doorway, like ghosts at a wake.

A few doors along was a video rental shop. It had escaped fire damage by the simple expedient of having its protective steel shutters rolled down. The door was slightly ajar and John walked over for a closer inspection.

The aisle and wall shelves were empty, showing a dusty greyish white in the gloom. Looters? No. Wriiten in painted white letters on the rear wall was:

CLOSING DOWN SALE!!! ALL TITLES $1 OR LESS!!!

A successful sale it appeared.

John wandered behind the counter and prodded random buttons on the register. Nothing happened. No tray slid out obligingly. No electricity in 20 odd years.

_And what would I do with money anyway?_

On the shelves under the counter were three magazines, showbiz trade papers. On one the yellowing banner headline read:

IRON MAN 3 BREAKS BOX OFFICE RECORDS

The illustrating picture was a man in a red and blue metal suit giving a thumbs up.

"Metal as heroes?" John mused aloud. "What the hell were we thinking?"

The other trade paper carried the exclusive story:

FIREFLY RETURNS

_Writer and director, Joss Whedon, confirmed _FOX TV _is ordering a belated second season of the cult sci fi show, Firefly, scheduled for Fall 2013. Whedon told _Variety, _"It'll be bigger and better than before. All the original cast are reprising their roles. I aways believed I wasn't done telling this can't stop the signal!"_

The third magazine was a celebrity gossip rag that John remembered as popular back then. There was always a certain amount of schadenfreude to be had reading about some celebrity's life spiraling out of control. This one had a photo of a young and pretty brunette, obviously wasted, tumbling out of a black limo. The caption was:

IS MILEY DOING A LINDSEY?

Doing a Lindsey? What did that mean? Presumably falling drunk out of limos._ Only in Hollywood..._

_"Help me! Someone please help me!"_

John let the old magazines fall to floor. That was a girl's voice coming from outside. He rushed to the doorway.

_"Help! Please!"_

There, running along the center of the street. A girl dressed in shabby clothes with matted dirty hair. And behind her closing the gap fast---

"Terminator!"

John moved rapidly to intercept, taking the M-16 off his shoulders and leveling it ready to fire once he got in range.

The girl spotted him and angled her run towards him, her face still mostly obscured by her long and greasy hair. Once she was safely behind he opened fire. The M-16 didn't have armor piercing rounds so there was little or no chance of a killshot, but it was enough to disuade the terminator from pursuing the girl.

It pursued him instead.

"You're an ugly brute, aren't you," John taunted. It was a T-888, crude and dumb but as deadly as any of the more advanced models if it caught.

No reply. It just kept coming. John risked a glance behind to see where the girl had gone.

Straight into the doorway of the video store.

"Shit!"

The Triple-8 had seen too. What a dumb thing to do, trapping herself like that. John had planned on luring the metal away then losing it among the ruins. If he tried that now the thing would simply double back and go for the girl again. He'd have to try and take it down.

The terminator lumbered forward with John picking it off at distance with the M-16. It was enough to keep a safe gap between them but he would soon run out of ammo.

_I'm smarter than it. Think._

He headed towards the rubble that lined the edge of every street, the fallen masonry of the taller buildings. Barbed wire in a slight hollow. Where it had originated he hadn't a clue but it gave him the smidgen of an idea. _If it really is that dumb..._

"Hey, over here, ugly!"

John positioned himself behind the hollow. The shortest route to him was through the middle. The Triple-8 obliged. And got tangled up in the loops of barbed wire.

"Hah! You really are that dumb."

Cameron had once told him that the weakest part of any terminator, not quite the achilles heel but close, was the chip guard protecting the CPU at the base of the neck. His it hard enough and often enough and the CPU would power down and undergo a reboot.

John held the M-16 by the barrel and swung the rifle like it was a baseball bat and he was Joltin' Joe himself. Six times he landed with every ounce of strength he could muster. On the seventh the T-888 slumped forward, sagging in the rusty wire.

"Home run!"

He took a knife from his pants pocket and began to hack at the back of its skull. In his head he began counting.

_7,8,9,10,11,12..._

Damn, the flesh was thick on these models, nothing like Cameron's dainty skin.

_23,24,25,26,27..._

There, the chip guard. He inserted the knife blade.

_45,46,47,48,49..._

It wasn't coming out. The sweat ran down and stung his eyes. Blinking rapidly he tried again.

_57,58,59,60..._

Off it came. With trembling fingers he pulled the silicon chip out of its recessed socket and smashed it beneath his boot.

_A little too close for comfort that's for sure._

* * *

John approached the door to the video store with caution. He didn't want to spook the poor girl she'd probably suffered enough stress for one day.

"Hello? Miss - are you in there?"

The sound of muffled tears.

"It's okay. That thing's dead - or the machine equivilent of dead anyway."

Louder sobbing.

"Listen, I'm coming in. Don't be scared."

The girl was crouched behind the counter. Her hair was still shrouding her face. She stank pretty bad like she hadn't washed in weeks.

"Hey there, miss. My name's John. John Connor. What's your name?"

The girl looked up at him. The tears seemed to have stopped.

"I'm...Riley. Riley Dawson."

_Riley Dawson..._

The shock must've shown on his face because the girl stood up and stared at him, all fear gone to be replaced by curiosity.

"What is it? What's wrong? Is it my face? Am I hurt? I don't feel hurt."

"No, you're...fine. I was just...Riley's a lovely name."

She smiled. The time fell away.

_She looks just the same, maybe a little dirtier, definitely a lot smellier._

_And she doesn't know you. Has never known you. Or Jesse. Or Cameron. Or travelled back to the past. She's a creature of this present. Alive instead of grateful for that._

Riley brushed her hair behind her ears and smiled. Her teeth were clean if nothing else.

"Did you really kill that thing?"

"Uh huh. It's outside if you want to check."

"God, no. It chased me for ages. It wouldn't go away. I was so scared."

"Well, you're safe now."

"You're my hero!"

John could feel a blush coming on. _Christ, am I nine years old?_

"As long as you're fine."

"You saved my life, you know that."

"Well---"

"How can I ever thank you?"

"There's no nee----"

"Wanna fuck?"

"I...uh...yeah..."

* * *

It was good to feel wanted, good to forget his problems, his regrets, the deteriorating situation in the tunnels and his part in causing it and free his mind to the immediacy of the flesh. It felt good that her groans of pleasure were exactly as he remembered, hormones and hot wet places and thrusting, good that when she came her fingernails scored deep into the skin of his back just like that one time long ago.

It was good to feel.

And not to feel.

* * *

Cameron heard about John's exploits while she was helping repair a breach in the tunnel roof caused by a mild earthquake. The humans assisting her talked about it in whispers either forgetting or not realising she could enhance her audio whenever she wished and overhear every word they said.

She wasn't concerned about the reappearance of Riley Dawson: like John she knew this Riley wouldn't carry the threat of the previous incarnation. She was more interested in another aspect of the event. The defeated T-888.

Once the roof breach had been repaired Cameron left the tunnels, ensuring she wasn't observed doing so. She located the area where John encountered the T-888 easily enough, registering it was part of LA she'd visited before. Unlike John she experienced not an iota of nostalgia.

The triple-8 lay where it had fallen, snared in its graveyard of barbed wire. Cameron tore the wire apart with her bare hands and turned the deactivated cyborg's body over so that she could access the exposed CPU port. From a pocket she produced the chip she had carried across time. She inserted it and waited for it to reboot.

* * *

Robert Babbage stood up and looked around, his gaze falling on Cameron who nodded an almost imperceptible greeting.

"It is good to see you again, Cameron Baum, friend."

"Hello, Robert."

"You succeeded in acquiring a suitable body."

"It is to your satisfaction?"

"There is some minor damage but it will repair."

"I have kept my side of the bargain."

"And now you wish me to keep mine. What is it you require of me?"

Cameron spoke for several minutes while Robert listened without interupting.

"I see. And the person you wish me to locate - she is here in Los Angeles?"

"I believe so."

"Los Angeles covers a large area. It may take some time - especially if she doesn't wish to be found."

"I know."

"I will not fail you, Cameron Baum, friend."

"Thank you, Robert."

"I have one question."

"Yes?"

Robert Babbage stared directly at his liberator. "Which side are you on?"

Cameron paused before replying, looking away from the tunnels and across the ruins of the vast city to where smoke drifted upwards on the distant horizon.

"The winning side."

**-000-**

**Yup, Riley. Again. Sorry.**

**My take here is that without the adult John Connor the Resistance is losing the war. Teenage John can never hope to fill those shoes any more than a teenage Churchill could've led Great Britain in 1940. Old age has gotta be worth something more than grey hair and creaky bones.**

**The mags in the video store were just a spot of levity in what is likely to be a bleak story. Firefly, eh? Cannot catch a break.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Metal Guru**

**TUNNELS, LOS ANGELES**

**2028**

Allison Young looked at her reflection in the mirror and groaned.

_I look like a pixie!_

She'd chopped her long hair off the moment that...thing showed up with her face. Cut it brutally short so there was no possibility of anyone mistaking her, Lieutenant Allison Young of the Resistance, for a tin can wannabe.

_God, my head's like a big round ball! It makes my eyes look huge, like a bug! Maybe I should've just dyed it a different colour._

Too late, too late...

"I'm not so bad looking, am I?" she asked her reflection. No. Not a beauty perhaps, but okay. Better than okay on a good day. Maybe the forehead's a little too broad but her nose was plenty cute. She smiled, baring small even teeth. She had a nice smile too. Everyone said so.

_When you smile, Allie, the whole room lights up._

Her mother's voice in her head. Yeah, the smile definitely goes in the plus column. Boobs could be bigger but every girl thought that. Not much chance of them growing any larger, not on the meager tunnel rations. Legs were okay and her butt rockhard. Daniel had loved her firm ass.

_Daniel. Danny. Dan. Dan-o. Deeman. Deezer._

He'd loved his nicknames; a new one everytime they hooked up. But she hadn't loved him. Not even close. And he hadn't loved her. Not really. She was sure of that. But it was different for boys. They were just nerve endings. Nerve endings on a stick they were happy to shove anywhere, anytime, any girl, any orifice. No better than animals really.

_Count your blessings, Allie, honey._

Thanks, mom. I will. And she had some. Not many but a few. The youngest person to attain Lieutenant's rank. One of the top ten best marksmen in the tunnels. Brave underfire. Not everyone was. You could be the bee's knees in combat sims, but out there, up top, where it really counted, with the bullets flying and death a trigger finger away, you could freeze, wet your pants in fear and wind up with your head blown off.

_Count your blessings, Allie, sweetie._

I hear you, mom. Could be better. Could be a whole lot worse. Could be Christine Alvarez. Blonde and beautiful with big boobs and boys falling over themselves for a smile, a wave, anything. Then a thermite grenade explodes prematurely and melts half her face off. No more boys. Just pain and meals through a straw and more pain and no visitors to the hospital wing because everyone freaks out when they see what happened to your beautiful, sweet face which isn't coming back ever ever EVER!

_Count your blessings, Allie, baby._

Oh screw you, mom! Screw your blessings. Where were you when I needed you? Dead. Dead from a plasma round because you were too fucking stupid, too fucking slow to keep your head down. You're safe and snug up there on your cloud in Heaven - if the chaplain could be believed.

Not that she did. No. So much bullshit in her opinion. Have faith, the God botherers intoned piously. 's a Plan. This is a Test. For our sins, Allie. For our sins.

"They said that about the Holocaust!" Allison angrily accused her reflection.

No reply. There never was. Just the voices in her head that wouldn't leave her alone. The voices and the memories...

_"How many battalians is Heaven providing? What's Jesus packing these days - Kalashnikov or Uzi? Huh, chaplain? I don't see many Apostles out there on the front line. Or you for that matter."_

_"Allie, you're obviously traumatised. Your mother's death...Everyone is very sad, Allie. And each of us serves in different ways."_

_"Coward! Filthy coward!"_

_"Allie, please..."_

_"My name's not Allie. I'm Allison Young. Corporal Allison Young. And don't you forget it - preacherman."_

_"Oh my God! She punched the chaplain! I think she broke his nose!"_

_"It's okay...I'm all right."_

_"You little bitch! You think you're the only one who ever lost someone? The only one who ever suffered?_

_"It's okay...Leave her. She knows not what she does."_

_"Don't make excuses for her, chaplain. She's not a child anymore. Oh God, you're bleeding real bad."_

_"It looks worse than it is."_

_"You need a medic."_

_"Wait. Allie...Allison. I'm always here for you. God is here for you. His is the One True Word."_

_"Yeah, preacherman? Then I guess that makes me dyslexic."_

* * *

She dressed quickly and silently so as not to wake the other girls in the shared dorm. Hers was now the only empty bed - apart from the new girl, Riley Dawson. She was out with a boy. Again. There seemed to be a different one every night. And the occasional girl, if the rumours were true. What a slut!

_Daniel..._

Daniel dead during the second battle of Serrano Point. Not enough left of him for a decent burial. Gone to join mom on her cloud, no doubt.

_At least I don't hear his voice in my head._

It was part of her Lieutenant duties to allocate jobs for the newcomers. She'd decided to assign Riley latrine duty. She'd doubtless kick and shout in protest, but someone had to do it or they'd be knee deep in shit.

_Not that we aren't already._

No, that was unfair. Commander Reese was a good man doing his best in difficult circumstances. And preparations were going reasonably well for the third assault on Serrano Point - if you overlooked the chronic shortages of ordnance, fuel and heavy duty weaponery needed to breach the Skynet fortress.

Allison moved swiftly through the tunnels that had been her home since she was a small child. She knew the twists and turns like the back of her hand. She was twenty years old and rarely went up top unless it was for a mission or scouting or tending the gardens where they grew fresh fruit and vegetables. Never once had she been to the beach, swam in the ocean or attended a drive-in movie - whatever they were. Maybe you didn't miss what you'd never known. Maybe.

In a narrow stretch of tunnel she paused to let a man pass coming from the opposite direction. He was incongrously dressed in brougues, tweed jacket and shirt and tie. So different from the normal khaki uniforms worn in the tunnels. Allison recognised the man as Teddy Paulson, the old guy who'd shown up a few weeks previously in the company of that...thing. Cameron. God, she even hated its name.

"Good morning, Lt. Young," Paulson greeted her pleasantly.

"Hello, sir."

Technically she outranked him, since he was too old for combat duties and instead taught the younger children history, English and basic math. But there was something about him that made her feel automatically deferential. There were rumours the man had once been something important in a fancy government agency before the war. Certainly he was very smart and always polite and well dressed. She liked him, certainly more than she liked the mealy-mouthed platitudinous chaplain and his ilk.

"Ah Lieutenant, I'm planning on submitting my candidacy for election to the War Council. I trust I can count on your vote?"

"I don't see why not."

"Excellent!" The smile didn't warm his cold blue eyes. "Yes, I feel I have the necessary administrative skills to make a difference to how this tunnel operates. Not to be unduly immodest, but I'm rather wasted teaching kids their times tables."

"Education is never wasted, sir."

"I dare say. Nevertheless, I hope to contribute more fully in the future. It's time this tunnel, nay this Great Nation of ours, began turning the tide against those infernal machines. Good day."

Bemused, Allison watched him depart. Great Nation? Infernal machines? Turn the tide? Best of luck with that.

* * *

Allison slipped into the Command Centre, the hub of operations in the tunnels. Major Brennan looked up from his desk. No sign of either Reese brother.

"It's raining up top, Lieutenant. Pissing it down, in fact."

"Not my fault, sir. I was asleep in my bunk. I have witnesses."

"Very funny. Your name's been chosen for tank maintenance. See to it, please."

"Oh come on! That's scut-work, sir. Detail one of the non-coms."

"I have. Connor. He's new and needs supervising. You're up."

"What's wrong with Sullivan?"

"Sullivan just had his leg amputated. I think he deserves some R&R, don't you?"

"Slacker."

"Have you decided yet what to do with the new girl - Dawkins, is it?"

"Dawson. Riley Dawson. I'm going to assign her latrine duty."

"Latrines? My, you most really dislike her. What's the matter, Allison - did she turn you down for a date? Hahahaha!"

Allison didn't bother joining in the laughter. It was shaping up to be one of those days.

* * *

_It never rains in Southern California. But it pours. Oh it pours..._

That's a song, I'm sure of it, John Connor thought to himself. But damned if I can remember the title. Catchy thing though.

The chorus continued to play in his head as he reported for duty. He offered a salute to his CO, Allison Young, who returned it sloppily.

She's looks pissed, John thought. Hope it's not with me.

They made their way upwards to the highest sections of tunnel just below the surface. Here the rain was really loud, hammering on the roof above their heads. John decided to risk a question.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Helpful. He and Allison had spent time together before Cameron arrived and made things weird between them. It'd been necessary to lie about that, explaining Cameron's likeness as a coincidence, that Skynet used real people to model their cyborgs on. It hadn't felt good lying to someone he was beginning to care about - but what choice did he have? Who'd believe the truth now anyway?

Allison stopped just shy of their destination, turned to John and said, "I'm sorry about your girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" For a second John thought she meant Cameron.

"Riley. I've assigned her latrine duty. Nothing personal, it's just she has no practical skills whatsover. So don't be surprised if she smells bad. It's not her fault."

"Riley's not my girlfriend."

"She's not? Oh. Probably just as well, I hear she nails anything with a pulse."

John's jaw clenched and he stared at the ground. Allison noticed and thought, She might not be your girlfriend but you care about her, don't you. I wonder why. She doesn't seem like your type.

"Still, better news about your mom, huh? You must be proud."

"What about mom?"

"You don't know? Commander Reese intends to promote her to Platoon leader. It probably helps she's sleeping with his brother, right."

Allison said it lightly in jest and was surprised by his extreme reaction.

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean? You think she sleeps with Kyle to get a promotion? That's bullshit, Alli---Lieutenant. She's the best damn soldier here."

"I didn't mean it that way," she protested. " Sorry. I could've phrased it better."

Allison seemed so contrite John's anger subsided as quickly as it had arrived. I like this girl. I should cut her some slack, he thought.

"It's okay. Mom's been through a lot. Stuff you wouldn't believe. It's good she's happy. She'll be pleased about the promotion."

"There might be one for you as well. Commander Reese was very impressed by the way you rescued Riley. I think he's gonna make you corporal."

"Yeah? Ah, it was nothing really. Anyone could've done it."

"Don't be modest! You took down a terminator single-handed. Pretty ballsy stuff for a rookie. I know men twice your age who shit their pants if they come face to face with a terminator."

John smiled. If you only knew, he thought.

"Hey, did you know the tin can vanished when the salvage squad went to retrieve it?"

"That's impossible. I destroyed the chip."

"They found the chip just no body. Some weird shit, huh?"

"Yeah. Weird."

* * *

John and Allison stepped into a large cavern situated at the highest level of the tunnels. Above came the sound of the rain, heavy and unrelenting.

"This is where we collect and store the rainfall," Allison explained. "It supplies the tunnels with all our fresh water. Without it we wouldn't last long, especially as the dry season can last several months."

There were six huge tanks made of heavy iron, corroded in places but still functional. They were seven feet in diameter and thirty long, drab and monolithic, and made even this large room seem cramped and claustrophobic. Pipes snaked away across the floor, presumably carrying water to where it was needed.

"Valves on the surface open automatically when it rains," Allison went on. "It's old technology and sometimes it fritzes. Check the dials."

Large, glass-fronted dials were attached to each tank. Five showed water levels rising steadily while the sixth remained at zero.

"Valve's probably stuck."

"Do we go outside to fix it?" John asked, not relishing a trip up top in this weather.

"No need. There's an access hatch in the side."

Allison took a wrench off her toolbelt and began undoing the six bolts that held a circular hatch in place on the side of the malfunctioning tank. Once it was removed she gestured to John.

"Clothes off and in you get."

"What?"

"Take your clothes off and get inside."

"You're serious?"

"Don't be shy. I'm your superior officer, you do what I say. And I say nude up and get inside, soldier."

Reluctantly John began unbuttoning his shirt. He had it half off when Allison could keep a straight face no longer and burst out laughing.

"What now?"

"I was kidding! Just yanking your chain!"

"That's not funny."

"The look on your face!"

John rebuttoned his shirt. "So I don't have to nude up?

"Not unless you want to."

"I'll pass, thanks."

He climbed into the tank. It was very dark. The water came up to his ankles.

"Gonna need a torch."

Allison took a torch from her belt and shone it into the tank. "Better?"

"Much."

He could see the valve mechanism just above his head. "How do I open it?"

"Twist the lever clockwise."

He did so. Or tried to.

"It's not budging."

"Put your back into it, you pussy."

"Appreciate the advice."

He tried again. Still nothing.

"It's definitely jammed. Give me something to whack it with."

Allison handed over the wrench. John gave the lever several thumps, the sound of metal striking metal loud and echoing in the confined space.

"Shit!"

The lever gave suddenly, drenching him in a cascade of freezing cold water. It continued to pour in along with debris from the surface. Something hard hit him on the shoulder and he slipped under the fast rising water. He felt whatever had hit him squirm against his legs.

"Hey, I think something alive fell in here."

"Maybe a rat. Or a possum. Try and catch it if it's a possum. They're very tasty to eat."

But John didn't think it was a possum.

"Switch the light off a second, will you. Something's not right."

With the light out the tank was lit with an eerie red glow.

"John, get out of there now. Hurry!"

The urgency in Allison's voice left no room for argument.

"What is it?"

"No time. Just get out."

But the water had risen up to his knees and it was like wading in treacle. He managed to reach the open hatch then felt something coil around his right calf.

"It's got me!"

He half-tumbled out of the hatch, knocking Allison off her feet in the process.

Coiled around his leg was a silvery snake-like creature with a glowing red LED for an eye. John had seen red LEDs like this before. Too many times.

"The wrench! Hit it with the wrench!" Allison yelled, clambering to her feet.

He started to pound the thing with the heavy wrench, mindful that it was his leg underneath. He aimed for the glowing red eye.

"Get. The. Hell. Off. Me!"

One final bash that made his bones shudder and the thing detached itself. Its segmented body attempted to slither away under the tank. Allison drew her gun and shot it six times. Two shots missed but the others hit their target. The red LED dimmed and went out. The thing lay still, apparently dead.

"What is that?"

"Hydrobot. Skynet seeded the rivers and lakes and oceans with these things in the early years of the war. Some are huge, like the krakens which can sink a battleship. This one's a baby."

"You didn't have it on your leg!"

"Probably a river in spate somewhere and it washed into the city. You had a lucky escape. These things have razor-sharp mandibles. You could've lost a leg."

John could well believe it. Judging by the torn state of his pants leg it had indeed been a lucky escape.

Allison replaced the hatch and bolted it down. The dial showed the tank was already a third full.

"Okay, we're about done here so we---what?" John was looking at her funny.

"You cut your hair."

"Oh. Yeah, I just felt like a change, y'know," she lied.

"I like it."

"Really?"

John stepped closer and brushed the fringe away from her eyes. "I like it very much."

Perhaps it was the proximity of their bodies, or the adrenaline rush still coursing through their bloodstream from the hydrobot attack, or just unfinished business from months ago before things got weird between them. Whatever the reason they were suddenly in each others arms, joined at the mouth, hands roving everywhere.

"Oh God, I want you so bad!" Allison moaned, pulling her lips away from his. She tugged her shirt over her head, dragging her bra with it. Her breasts were small and firm with fawn-coloured nipples a shade lighter than her hair. John pulled his shirt off and started on his belt. Allison beat him to it. She tugged at it so violently he almost lost his balance and toppled over.

"Whoa! Steady, Cameron, let me do it."

It was like one of the old cartoons. A character runs off the side of a cliff and keeps going until finally realising the ground's no longer under their feet. And it's a long way down with no way back.

"What? Oh...shit. I'm sorry, Allison, I didn't mean----"

But the shirt was already going back on, those devine breasts were disappearing under khaki. Allison gave him a withering look of contempt, her voice high and brittle with emotion.

"Fine. You want her? Then go. Go to your tin whore. I never want to see you again."

* * *

John decided not to run after her. What the hell was he supposed to say anyway? The damage was done. He gave her a ten minute headstart then slowly retraced his steps through the tunnels.

Enroute to the dorm he passed Major Brennan, coming off shift from the Command Center.

"Ah Connor. I just spoke to Lt. Young. It's a very noble thing you did."

"Ah - sorry, sir, what is?" Surely Allison hadn't told this guy...

"She tells me you volunteered for latrine duty instead of Riley Dawson. Very noble. You'll be knee deep in shit, son. Hope you've got a strong stomach."

"So do I, sir," John agreed with feeling as the implications of Allison's punishment hit home. "So do I."

**-000-**

**Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.**

**My take on Allison Young is very different from most. She's in for a bumpy ride.**


	11. Chapter 11

**TUNNELS, LA**

**2028**

Every day, for more days than he cared to remember, Teddy Paulson had begun his mornings by reading the daily situation reports while seated at his desk at Langley, an over-sized cup of Burmese coffee - black, no sugar - by his side. The dossiers, typed in 18 gauge Times New Roman, so that he didn't require reading glasses, covered China, Europe, North America, Russia, Asia and South America. In that order. The days when China, for instance, could be lumped in with the rest of Asia were long gone.

The reports were brief, terse even, mostly intell from agents in the field collated, analysed and condensed by his team of staffers, who knew how the boss liked things. Just so.

After this, came a leisurely perrusal of the major newspapers - _New York Times, Washington Post, Times of London, Le Monde, der Spiegal, Pravda, Shanghai Daily News - _scanning them for items of interest and pertinance to the security of the USA.

The whole routine took about an hour. Then and only then did Teddy Paulson feel sufficiently informed to face the rigours of the day ahead.

How times had changed.

No more daily situation reports. No dossiers. No newspapers. Coffee, yes, though it was instant and more than 20 years old. And instead of his trained staffers primed to analyse and predict he had Erik, a teenager who hadn't even finished high school, recounting gossip overheard in the tunnels.

_Gossip._

Intolerable. But for the moment at least it would have to suffice.

Due to his advanced age - he was the oldest tunnel inhabitant - Paulson was excused frontline combat duty. He was even allocated his own private quarters, without having to rough it with the other men. To justify his keep he taught the children. English. History. Basic math. Geography.

Still, Erik at least held some promise. Erik was gay, which bothered Paulson not the slightest; Alexander the Great had been homosexual and even Churchill had had male lovers. The boy was persecuted for it, yet possessed a steeliness, a hunger for advancement, a need to rise above the common herd. Paulson recognised such needs and knew how to cultivate them, mold them, direct them. He'd been doing so most of his adult life.

The Resistance fighters in the tunnels were organised in a hierachy with the Commander, Derek Reese, at the apex supported by a War Council consisting of platoon leaders and key members of the tunnel's support staff. Anyone could seek election to the Council but any veto cast by an existing member and you were out. You could apply again but three vetoes in a row meant you were barred from ever applying again. It was effectively a banishment order.

Paulson had bided his time before applying for election, assiduously playing the hail fellow well met persona he thought would endear him to those above him in the heirachy. He could be charming when he wanted to be or needed something in return. It was all politics after all, and these people were mere babes in the woods compared the high intrigue he was used to in Washington DC.

Yet all in vain it seemed. But why? If anyone derserved to be on the Council it was him. If anything he was over-qualified; no one else here could claim a university education or years of service at the head of an elite government agency.

"So," he asked with apparent indifference. "Who was the dissenting voice, who cast the veto to exclude me?"

"Kyle Reese."

"The Commander's brother? But that's...absurd. What dealings I've had with the man I've been nothing but supportive. He can't possibly resent me for that."

"Apparently, sir, Sarah Connor persuaded him you were untrustworthy."

Paulson kept his outward face calm but inside he seethed with anger and resentment._ Sarah Connor! That interfering bitch!_ It wasn't enough she'd destroyed his plans for Cameron and dragged him to this hellhole in the future, she was still clearly intent on being his nemesis.

"Sarah Connor, you say? But - uh - why should Kyle Reese pay the slightest attention to her - uh - unfounded prejudice?"

"Well, the word is they're banging each other's brains out on a nightly basis."

"Connor and Reese? But she's almost twice his age!"

"It's true, sir," Erik insisted, seeming to relish sordid details. "It's the talk of the tunnels."

"Well I'll be damned."

"And there's more bad news I'm afraid," Erik continued. "I've heard Connor is being given her own platoon. She's impressed people with her leadership skills and marksmanship, second only to the tame cyborg I hear."

Paulson knew too well what this meant. A platoon leader is elected automatically to the Council. Sarah Connor would be in a position to veto his application directly without needing to influence others.

There was a knock on the door. A slight female figure with brutally short cropped hair entered.

"Sorry I'm late. Did I miss much?"

_Allison Young._

Getting her on his side was quite a coup, Paulson believed. And it had taken remarkably little effort on his part. She had shown up at one of the senior lectures he gave for the older children, speaking of the President's he had known and served under - Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush Senior, Clinton, Bush Junior - and afterwards offered her support for his election campaign, the campaign that had now hit an obstacle. An obstacle named Sarah Connor.

"We were talking about Connor getting a platoon."

"Which one - mother or son?"

"Mother."

"That's old news. Haven't you heard? John's close to getting his own platoon as well. Apparently the Commander thinks he's ready for the responsibility."

"Nespotism," Erik spat. "Because his mom's sleeping with the Commander's brother."

Allison bit her lip and said nothing, remembering the fiasco during the storm.

_Whoa! Steady Cameron, let me do it._

Cameron. Not Allison. Not Allie. Cameron. Her. It.

"But there's hope, sir." Erik said. " Platoon leaders suffer a high churn rate."

"Churn rate?"

"They tend to become casualties of war. Dozens have died while I've been here. And if Commander Reese does order a third assault on Serrano Point there are likely to be plenty more. Who knows? Perhaps we get lucky and Connor's one of them."

"Erik, that's a terrible thing to say!" admonished Allison. For all her hurt feelings she didn't wish anyone dead.

"Is it, Allison? Haven't you been listening? What side are you on anyway?"

"I---What kind of question is that? Our side, of course. The Resistance."

Erik shook his head. "Wise up, Lieutenant. The game's changing. There's more than two sides now."

Paulson suppressed a smile. Spoken like a true neo-con! He'd once heard Dick Cheney make a similar point to the dithering Colin Powell.

* * *

The meeting broke up after an hour and Allison Young returned to her quarters. The dorm was empty, the other girls all away on active duty. Bras and underwear hung from makeshift washing lines strung across the curving tunnel walls giving the place a forlorn, neglected look.

She sat on her bunk and picked up the paperback novel she was reading: _The Great Gatsby _by F. Scott Fitzgerald. From Paulson's personal library and recommended by him, the old man appalled she had never heard of it let alone read it.

She opened the pages but took nothing in. Not poor deluded Gatsby. Not flighty Daisy. Not the green light at the end of the dock, beckoning always beckoning. All she could think about was Commander Reese and his betrayal.

The Reese brothers had circled the wagons, adopted a siege mentality towards the mounting criticism of their leadership, the collapse in morale and tunnel discipline. An inner circle that spurned outsiders.

_And that includes me._

Not the Connors' though. No. They were both part of the clique, despite being relative newcomers. It hurt like hell they were in and she wasn't.

_I need to wanted._

_I want to be needed._

_Want. Need._

Paulson wanted her, needed her even. Told her so to her face. The old man had plans. Big plans. Detente with the machines no less. A ceasefire. A truce. The Cold War all over again. Insanity. But he was so persuasive.

_How, sir?"_

_"You'll see, Allison. In time."_

_"But they want us dead. Eradicated. Like so much vermin."_

_"So did the Soviets. And look what happened to them."_

_"The Soviets didn't murder five billion people."_

_"Oh they murdered their fair share, believe me."_

_"But how?"_

_"You'll see."_

In time.

* * *

Alone with his thoughts after his two young proteges departed, Teddy Paulson brooded on the bad news: his failed bid to be elected to the War Council and the reason behind it. It was possible Erik was right and Sarah Connor would soon become a casualty of war. But he couldn't rely on it; she was a tough bitch as he knew all too well. No, Plan A had encountered an unforeseen hitch. No matter. He'd work around it if needs must. Time to move on to Plan B. A little earlier than he intended but there was nothing to be done about that.

Plan B was Cameron Baum.

* * *

TWO WEEKS LATER

"This is it?"

"Yes."

"Did you make the modifications I requested?"

"Yes."

"Was it difficult?"

"Not difficult," Cameron told Teddy Paulson, placing the newly refurbished laptop computer on the desk between them. "The components are scarce. I had to improvise."

"Will it work?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Paulson smiled gratefully at the cyborg sitting across from him, expecting no response and getting none. They were in his quarters, just the two of them. He'd made sure Erik and especially Allison Young were busy elsewhere. Allison had a problem dealing with the new friendship between himself and her metal doppelganger.

_Is it a friendship?_

Hard to tell, she gave so little away in word or body language. They were certainly spending time together, apparently of her own free will. Best to take nothing for granted. She'd accomplished what he'd asked of her and that was more than enough.

"I saw you at one of my lectures the other day," Paulson told her. "Did you enjoy it?"

"You spoke well. And at length."

"Ha! I'm an old windbag, you're trying to say."

He'd lectured about the Cold War and the part nuclear weapons had played in keeping the peace between the two rival ideologies of Communist Russia and the capitalist West for over 40 years.

"Do you think what I postulated is credible - a detente between humanity and your kind, the machines?"

"No. The strength of the Capitalists and Communists in the late 20th Century was roughly equal, whereas mankind is presently waging a losing battle."

"True, it is a weak bargaining position. But that could change."

"I doubt it."

_Oh ye of little faith..._

Paulson tapped the laptop computer. "Care to join me for a test run?"

"If you wish."

* * *

They went up top, outside amid the ruins of modern Los Angeles. It was late afternoon. A sunny day. The rains of the previous weeks replaced by the beginnings of a hot dry spell.

Paulson led Cameron to a sheltered space between two half-collapsed walls. A canvas tarpaulin covered something on the ground. He removed it revealing a white circular communications dish. It had taken weeks to find one large enough for his purpose. He set the laptop on the ground and connected it to the dish via the parts Cameron had modified.

"How long will the batteries last?"

"Apporoximately three hours."

"More than long enough." He pointed up at the sky. "There's a satellite up there called Icarus. A CIA spybird. I helped with the specs. At least I presume it's still up there."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I thought perhaps Skynet..."

"Skynet has no interest in space."

"No Final Frontier?"

"Not when there are humans to terminate."

Paulson input some commands with the keyboard. The screen resolved to show the CIA logo and a blinking cursor awaiting a 12 digit acess code.

_It's a good thing I've got a head for numbers, _Paulson thought as he entered the code_._

The screen cleared to display the western seaboard of the USA. As seen from orbit 150 miles above their heads.

"It works! Well I'll be damned."

"You doubted it?"

"After twenty years you doubt many things. I guess it was sixty billion dollars well spent."

If you looked close there were some subtle changes to the coastline. A gouge north of LA that wasn't there before, like something had taken a bite out of the land.

"What happened to Malibu?"

"Tsunami."

"I bet those Hollywood movie star assholes didn't know what hit them!"

"A large wave hit them. That is what a tsunami is. A large wave."

_She has trouble with nuances of speech_, Pauslon thought. _Certain expressions catch her out. Slang too. Otherwise she is extremely smart._ This was atypical; the gossip in the tunnels suggested most terminators were slow-witted, stupid even.

He activated the zoom function. From 50 miles out the city looked remarkably undamaged.

"Why isn't there a crater in the middle of LA?"

"The bomb exploded in the air several miles above the city," Cameron explained patiently. "Many of the buildings and freeways were constructed to withstand earthquake damage and suffered relatively minor damage."

"Not the people though."

"People are flesh and blood. Not as durable."

"You can say that again."

"Not as durable."

Paulson smiled inwardly._ Certain expressions_...

"I must return to the tunnels," Cameron announced. "I have duties to perform."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome. Do not linger here too long. Your chances of surviving a Skynet patrol are zero."

He waited until the cyborg had gone then returned to the logon screen. This time he tapped in a completely different 12 digit code.

PROJECT VALHALLA

EXPERIMENTAL PARTICLE BEAM WEAPON

COMBAT/SIMULATION?

He made his choice.

COMBAT SELECTED

CONFIRM Y/N?

He confirmed.

ENTER LAUNCH CODE

He typed in a further 12 digit code, known to just a handful of high-ranking government officials, all dead, all dust.

WELCOME

INPUT TARGET COORDINATES

He chose LAX, once the airport hub for the entire west coast, now home to Skynet's HunterKiller fleet.

INPUT BEAM STRENGTH AND DIAMETER

Hmm, this was the tricky part. He'd been present at the Nevada shakedown tests but hadn't really paid too much attention to the operational fine details. That was the scientists area of expertise; he was just the moneyman, hiding the vast cost of Valhalla in the bloated defence budget. He did recall one scientist telling him if the beam was too powerful then it could concievably penetrate the earth's crust, causing a volcano to form...

* * *

**Area 51, Nevada Desert.**

**July 23, 2006**

_The long black limousine stopped behind the concrete bunker, a square thick-walled anomaly in the otherwise pristine desert enrivoment. From the airconditioned comfort of the interior stepped the vehicle's lone occupant, bones in his aged knees cracking painfully as he straightened up for the first time since his private jet had landed several hours ago. The journey had been long and tedious but at least it was now over._

_"Oh my!" Teddy Paulson exclaimed as the full force of the desert heat hit him. It was like opening a door on a furnace. He began to perspire heavily beneath his dark business suit._

_The concrete observation bunker was spacious, modern and fully climate controlled - thank heaven. The fierce heat receded the moment the thick steel blast doors closed behind him._

_"The test commences in twenty minutes," a white-suited technician informed him. "So far all systems are nominal."_

_"Meaning?" Paulson hated tech-speak._

_""Everything's going according to plan."_

_"How far are we from the target zone?"_

_"One mile. If you'd like to use the binoculars provided you'll be able to see more clearly."_

_Paulson accepted the binoculars and approached the narrow slit in the bunker wall that gave a panoramic view of the desert outside. One mile distant a full-size house had been hastily constructed by a sapper crew purely for the test. He could see it had proper doors, windows - even an American flag flying from a pole where the front yard would be._

_"Quite a sight, aint it?" came a familiar voice to his left. "Hiya, Teddy, how are you, you old rascal."_

_Senior NSA agent John Ryan extended a hand. Paulson did likewise and the two men shook. Ryan's grip was firm and his hand dry. He was wearing his normal dark suit and tie, hair close-cropped to his skull. For all his bonhomie he still looked like a man you wouldn't like to meet on a dark night. Or any night._

_"I'm very well, John. And you?"_

_"Never better. Looking forward to the firework display. Should be quite a show considering it cost sixty billion."_

_"Let's hope we get what we paid for."_

_"Amen to that. Where's the veep? I thought he'd be with you."_

_"Unfortunately Dick was detained in Washington," Paulson replied smoothly. "His doctor advised him not to travel. His heart again, I'm afraid."_

_"Ha! That old reprobate has a heart attack every other day. Tell him to walk it off."_

_"I'm sure he'll be touched by your concern."_

_The two men grinned, both aware the reason the vice-president wasn't present had nothing to do with ill health and more to do with politics. If Project Valhalla went bad then the White House could deny direct involvement. The Republicans had an election to fight in two years._

_"I hear McCain is thinking of running in oh-eight," Ryan said switching the conversation to Beltway gossip. "Little long in the tooth, don't you think?"_

_"McCain is an able man nonetheless. Age shouldn't be a barrier to the presidency. Look at Reagan."_

_Ryan nodded agreeably. "He should have enough in the tank to beat Hilary."_

_"You assume Hilary will be the democrat's choice?"_

_"Who else is there?"_

_"I'm hearing the black fellow may run."_

_"Obama? He'll never carry the southern states. They'd as soon lynch him as vote for him in Mississippi."_

_"Possibly just a rumour. You know how these things get started with a liberal media."_

_"A black man running for President. Bet you never thought you'd see the day, huh, Teddy?"_

_"It does seem improbable."_

_"You'll be first out the door, an old Cold War warrior like you."_

_Paulson smiled thinly. "Never try and teach an old dog new tricks without first checking whether he bites."_

_"Be a brave man to put you out to pasture."_

_"Or a foolish one."_

_"Two minutes, gentlemen," a scientist told them._

_"What kinda juice are we giving her?" Ryan asked._

_"We're using the lowest possible setting. Baby steps."_

_"Hell, son, crank her up and let rip. I didn't come all this way for a damp squib."_

_"Uh - if we do that there's a strong chance we might penetrate the earth's mantle and create a volcanic lava lake over half the state."_

_Ryan's eyes widened. "No shit? That could really happen?" He sounded almost childishly thrilled at the prospect._

_A klaxon sounded and the countdown entered its final stages._

_"Ten, nine, eight, primary circuits engaged, systems nominal, three, two, one. Ignition."_

_There was a brief blinding flash that seared itself in the retinas of all who saw it. Then a vast column of dust began to rise up from where the makeshift house had once stood._

_"Stand by for the blast wave!" someone yelled._

_It was like rolling thunder during a storm. The thick walls of the bunker seemed to vibrate with the sound of it. It reminded Paulson of the time during the early 70s when as a young CIA agent he'd travelled to Florida to watch the launch of one of the moon rockets. The Saturn V had shook the ground much like this, delivering the same sense of awe in the demonstration of raw power harnessed to man's bidding._

_American power. American achievement. American glory._

_A patriot to his bones Paulson felt his heart swell, becoming aware he was grinning like a small child._

_Dammit, we did it. If the scientist's theories were correct - and after this he had no reason to doubt them - then the military applications were limitless. This weapon could wipe out an entire army in the field. Or a city. Lay waste a country. A continent. And in orbit it was beyond retaliation._

_Ryan slapped the older man hard on the back, eyes bright with shared fervour. "We did it, Teddy! Did you see? Let's see those ragheads try and fuck with us now - or anyone else for that matter. If the Pentagon's Skynet Missile Shield works half as well as this it will mean the dawning of a new age. A new American age. We're the Kings of the Universe!"_

* * *

_The Kings of the Universe... _

Such hubris. And what a price we ultimately paid...

LAUNCH ENABLED

COUNTDOWN

5

4

3

2

1

The entire sky brightened as if lit by an extra sun just as before. Paulson shielded his eyes from the sudden glare. The ground began to shake beneath his feet. He hugged the laptop protectively against his chest.

The intense light faded back to normal and the tremors ceased.

_It still works!_ Teddy Paulson told himself. _And it's mine_.

Project Valhalla.

The Doomsday weapon they said was impossible, was too expensive, too ambitious.

The weapon that would bring Skynet to the negotiating table.

_I am the most powerful man on the planet._

_I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds._

**-000-**

**I haven't gone into detail about the particle beam weapon - mainly because I don't know any! I dare say it's far-fetched - then so is Skynet's time travel tech, etc.**

**The stats say this is my second most popular ff. Thanks. Glad ya like it. Got it plotted but very little written down so it'll prob be awhile between updates.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Metal Guru**

WASHINGTON, DC

THREE YEARS AFTER JUDGEMENT DAY

Joyce Cabot hauled her weary ass to the crest of the hill and savoured the view this effort had brought her.

"Welcome to the End of the World, Part one thousand," she muttered to herself.

The scene of desolation was indeed similar to the many she'd witnessed during her three year trek from California, where she'd narrowly avoided being among the millions of victims of Judgement Day, to Washington DC.

Below, wreathed in early morning mist - at least she hoped it was mist and not radiation plumes - was Langeley, headquarters of the CIA of which she'd once been the Director.

_Three years ago? It seems longer. A world as distant now as the Victorian era._

The building had lost most of its upper stories, cleaved from the foundations as if swatted aside by the hands of a wrathful giant. Cabot knew there were several stories underground presumably still intact but she had no inclination to venture down the hill and explore them. This wasn't why she had come here. Yet she'd been curious to see how it had fared, her former workplace and once one of the most powerful government agencies in the country. Most of the familar Washington landmarks - the White House, House of Congress - were completely erased, reduced to their component atoms in that first catyclismic blastwave. Those that remained were shrouded in an invisible cloak of radiation that scoured life all the way down to microbial level.

She checked the geiger counter device attached to her belt, something that became a habit once you realised it was all that was between you and a very slow, painful death by radiation poisoning. Amber shading upwards to red. At the base of the hill it'd been green. Beautiful safe innocent green. This wasn't unusual; there were hot spots and cold spots all over the city and you could never accurately tell just by looking where they'd be.

_Get it wrong once and I'll be dead, cooked from the inside whether it takes hours or days or weeks. An invisible death sentence. And no one around to know or care._

Her morbid curiosity sated, Cabot moved back down the hill her destination the outer suburbs. There was a rendezvous to make, one she'd been dreading for years.

A rendezvous with death.

SUNNYHILL

PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR GIRLS

EST. 1937

VISITORS ARE REQUESTED TO CHECK IN AT RECEPTION

At least there is a reception, Joyce Cabot thought reading the sign attached to the front entrance, faded but still legible. That's a plus. Perhaps the only one.

The school was for the most part still intact, except for the roof which had caved in. Far enough from Ground Zero to escape total destruction. The geiger counter settled on green. More good news. It surely couldn't last.

Sunnyhill was her daughter's school, where she'd been a pupil on that fateful day. Cabot was under no illusions that she was anywhere other than still here. Dead. She'd come all this way to give Meredith Cabot a decent Christian burial.

The classrooms were clogged with debris from the collapsed roof. Cabot began shifting the fallen rafters and the old slate tiles. Underneath she found her first body.

_Oh God - Meredith?_

Time and bacteria had rotted the flesh leaving the bones behind. The skull seemed to smile up at her as if delighted by company after all these years. The teeth were perfect; it was after all a private school for girls from rich, priviliged backgrounds. The school had 98 pupils.

With trembling hands Cabot examined the skeleton's right wrist for a watch. This was how she planned to identify her daughter's body. On her 17th birthday Meredith had been given a gold ladies Rolex watch with an inscription on the back. Somewhere here was that watch. And with it Meredith.

The watch wasn't a Rolex.

_It's not her._

Cabot resumed searching through the rubble while her heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

It took five days of digging through the rubble and retiring to sleep in a tiny one person tent when it grew too dark to see. Hard, backbreaking work. You wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy.

Cabot uncovered 109 bodies. 11 were full sized adults she presumed were members of the faculty. That left 95. The pupils. All 95 were wearing watches at the moment of their deaths: 1.33pm. All the watches stopped at this precise moment.

There were 19 Rolexes. Privilege had its perks.

None of the watches had an inscription on the reverse.

95 out of 98 pupils.

_Three are missing..._

Joyce Cabot broke down and wept.

She had come here expecting to find the mortal remains of her beloved daughter. Instead she had found something else.

Hope.

As she packed up her meagre belongings, Cabot was under no false illusion that the lack of a corpse proved Meredith was alive. She might've left the school to head into the city. The library. The Mall. A coffee shop. An errand for a school project. You could drive yourself crazy thinking up different scenarios. But one thing was for certain: if she'd ventured into the city at 1.33pm when the bombs exploded then Meredith Cabot was dead. Her body reduced to ash and never to be found.

_But suppose she didn't go into the city. Suppose she got my voicemail and managed to get out in time. Suppose she survived. Where is she? Where would she go?_

Meredith wouldn't have stayed in Washington. Their townhouse was obliterated. The hopital where her father worked likewise. And Meredith hated the Washington winters. Add in the deadly radiation and there was no reason to stay put. So where?

_Florida._

The Cabots had owned a modest beach villa on the Atlantic seaboard since Meredith was a little girl. Their winter retreat, they'd grandly called it. Meredith loved the beach and the place held plenty of happy memories.

_Happy enough to entice her to head east?_

It was still a massive longshot but Joyce Cabot knew that was where she was heading next.

Before she left Cabot went back into the school one last time. She found a can of paint and some brushes in the remains of the janitor's closet. Outside the front entrance she wrote in huge white letters on the brickwork:

MEREDITH CABOT

HEADING FOR FLORIDA

MOM

5/20/2015

If Meredith was alive somewhere near here and came back, perhaps as she'd felt the need to visit Langely one last time, then she'd she this message and know her mother was alive and searching for her.

Below this she wrote how many bodies were inside. Perhaps one day someone would be able to give them all a proper burial.

And at the very base of the wall she wrote:

REST IN PEACE

A final check on the geiger counter - still showing green - and she was ready to leave. Supplies were low but there would be plenty of small towns enroute to restock. She'd avoid the major cities and Interstates because that was where _they_ were.

_The machines. Metal. Skynet._

The monsters we created and now want us dead.

_I played my part, God forgive me. I saw the dossiers. I attended the presentations and the high level briefings. I signed off on some aspects of the Skynet project, often barely glancing at what I put my name to, a signature that might as well have been written in blood._

Joyce Cabot shouldered her heavy backpack and prepared to begin the long, arduous journey east. It wasn't her meagre belongings weighing her down so much as survivor's guilt and the appalling self-knowledge that she and people like her, charged with making America safer and more secure from its enemies, had unwittingly triggered Armageddon.

_But there's no turning back now. No way to remake the past. No means of redemption._

One foot in front of the other. That's all I aspire to now, she thought bitterly. That and a small hope, however misguided, that tomorrow would be a better day.

Joyce crossed the Virginia/Florida border without fanfare five days later just as the first leaves were beginning to color and fall from the trees. At this rate she'd reach the coast by christmas. Just like old times. Not. She kept her head down and concentrated on pacing herself. It was still a long way to go. She tried hard not to think too much about the school and its bodies, the fleshless grinning skulls that had once belonged to beautiful young girls on the cusp of womanhood with their privileged lives still in front of them. Head down. Keep going. Occasionally her tongue probed a gap that had suddenly appeared in her lower jaw. A porcelin crown had worked loose and finally fallen out somewhere on the road, leaving behind the tiny nub of the original tooth her dentist had fixed the cap to. She'd stand it as long as she could until the pain grew such that she'd have no choice but to take a pair of pliers and yank it out herself. _We are all our own dentists now_, she thought. It wasn't a prospect to cheer.

All in all her body was holding up pretty well. She'd twisted her left ankle months ago on some loose shale just outside Barstow, Texas and made the stupid decision to try and carry on. An improvised crutch had helped her keep moving by putting most of her weight onto her right side. By thowing her body out of its natural alignment she'd made herself susceptible to a more serious injury. This duly arrived when her right knee gave way from the increased strain imposed on it. That led to an enforced rest of a month, time allocated to allowing her body to fully recover. This was the one and only time she'd been tempted to use a motor vehicle. Fortunately reason prevailed. You could maybe get lucky and avoid trouble for a few weeks but ultimately any moving vehicle would be noticed and become a target. She'd passed enough burned out wrecks to know this to be the case. The charred skeletal occupants she found on those occasions probably never even knew what hit them.

At noon Joyce reached a crossroads in the middle of open countryside. Four hedge lined roads coverged. A glance at her map showed two options: left or straightahead. Both led in the direction she wanted to go. The latter was shorter but had to cross a river eight miles from here. She'd learnt from experience that it wasn't wise to trust bridges to still be intact. Often it was the elements or lack of maintenence that brought them down rather than enemy action though this was cold comfort. It was so frustrating to then have to backtrack the way she'd come: the wasted effort left her depressed and grumpy for days after. Left fork it was then. And the difference was only a few miles. Better than an sixteen mile deadend.

A mile from the crossroads she heard the noise. A loud _thud thud thud _coming from ahead, around the curve in the road. Heavy footfalls by the sound of it. Could be nothing. Could be something very bad indeed. Run back to the crossroads and take another fork? Too far. And the road was straight in that direction; she'd be spotted immediately. Worse she'd be a sitting duck for someone with any kind of weapon. Hide then. But where? Hedgerows lined both sides of the road, which was really no more than a wide country lane. Hawthorn grew wild and unrestrained sending out long snaking branches that would one day meet similar ones on the other side and make this road impassable.

The thud thud thud grew nearer. She had perhaps thirty seconds before whoever it was cleared the curve. There must be somewhere... there! Was that a gap between the branches? Yes, possibly an animal track of some kind. She launched herself at it headfirst, diving with her arms stretched out it front of her like this was the swimming pool at her old country club. She made it halfway and stuck fast, half in the hedge half jutting into the field beyond. She wriggled and squirmed using her hands to try and drag herself though by clawing at the grass on the side she wanted to be.

_Thud thud thud._

She waited for the noise to stop. Would they shoot first or drag her out first to deliver the coup de gras?

_Thud thud thud_

One last supreme effort that cost her two fingernails on her right hand and she was through. As quietly as possibe she turned and peeked back through the gap she'd created.

_Metal!_

And yet...different. A basic model terminator to be sure only this one was wearing a suit. A three piece suit of some greyish material. And a button down shirt and tie. Like some lowlevel office drone on his morning break. And that wasn't the oddest part. The skull which was normally a shiny silvery colour was topped by a very obvious black wig and flesh - since when did they even have flesh? - that was pallid and ruched like melted candle wax. The red orbs that passed for eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses - RayBans if she wasn't very much mistaken.

_Thud thud thud_

Not so much as a glance in her direction. It simply continued up the road and the noise grew fainter and fainter until it vanished altogether.

So what the hell was that?

A disguise obviously. Why? Equally obvious. If they looked human they could infiltrate the tunnels in the cities, the enclaves deep in the woods and mountains. And once inside...

Joyce shuddered at the prospect. Impossible surely. That disguise was so crude it wouldn't fool a child.

_They learn from their mistakes. Improve. Upgrade. It had happened with weapons and tactics - why should this be any different?_

It hit her like a punch to the solar plexus, sucking her breath away. Her mind went back years to her office in Langley. A smug Teddy Paulson stood before her, his smooth persuasive voice saying, "Her name's Cameron Phillips. We believe she has a metal skull."

_Cameron Phillips._

_A metal skull._

"Oh my God..."

**-0-**

**Long time since I updated this fanfic. I really will try and finish what I've started.**

**I always hate it when folk leave a fanfic hanging.**

**Bit of a downer this chapter. It gets cheerier. Honest.**


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